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A Title To Forget

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Chapter One


"What the fuck..?"


My chest heaved thoroughly up and down as I breathed with intensity. His tongue, which feels more than looks like a cow's, and probably full of decaying things, shoved its way into my mouth- dragging with it a good amount of saliva. Before I knew it, there was an unfamiliar and curious pain. I clasped my legs fixedly together and sat bolt right up.


"Come on babe, I waited long enough," coaxed Max Thompson. He lowered his bulky body onto the warmth of my naked figure, and kissed me sweetly with his unflattering lips, laying me back down on his short, tattered mattress- the mattress of a queer quietude and an utterly unsubstantial condition. It scantily lifts you away from the ground so the experience of jumping on it would not be so thrilling either. With a peculiar discomfort and failure of a height, it is equivalent to sleeping upon the floor. Wearing no sheets, homely flower print patterns appear whenever it is that I lay on my cheek, broadcasting an entire world of diagonal diamonds in this hideous, loathsome pattern. It also smells and coincidentally, so does Max Thompson.


He sometimes reeks of B.O.


Once when we were making out in his stagnant, card-board smelling garage after his break dance session, he commended that I lick his nipples- and as my tongue swept his skin, I belched a mess on to his hairless chest. If there was hair he would stink more immensely and I would have had a greater gag. This instinct was inevitable; in every line of a crack in his dark pink nipple, was an amount of odorous sweat. His sudoriferous glands overwhelmed my hypersensitive taste buds! I bluffed I was coming on to a flu. That same horrifying night, his mom made me a porridge- a similar stink as Max Thompson and his B.O. but I ate it nonetheless, after thanking Mrs. Thompson, and did not puke again.


"I really want to do this.." A few of his stubby fingers ran up and down my arm in attempt to soothe but I could imagine my skin was rough- hypothetically, I was given birth to with goosebumps; they are always there. I was born closer to the sky than others and often speculate: could that construe the presence of these perplexing goosebumps? I collected different adaptions from several people, but to make it simple- my mother was in labor inside of the hospital elevator, thirteen stories high. Not only was she inside the elevator, Mom was also attiring a pair of zipper less, button less pants while my head was already emerging from her. It was messy said my aunt, who assisted her with the pants.


His hand clutched my anxious knee which was notwithstanding to the other, but at the very same time acquired a rebellious wantonness. My knees, thighs, and legs corresponded to weak doors that Max did not possess the key to- yet he forced them open nonetheless and in a matter of kisses, we were making love. Just like that, without my having to give him any key to that exclusive lock. It was a quick and simple entrance. In all my imagination, I never envisaged the first key keeper to explicitly be Max Thompson but I had no room to comprehend. His body was overpowering, along with his determination, and no key mattered anymore. Compassing a lock was useless.


Love isn't as patient and enchanting as I thought. This was no passionate, torrid scene illustrated on the paper back covers of romance novels, no bodies of beauty possessing movements that resemble those of the synchronized or harmonious currents of an ocean. Rather, the rhythm was that of a dog wagging it's tail, or it's hungry paws digging dirt for a bone, or the beastly animal's humping velocity on a torn up and unfortunate stuffed bear. And where was the curtained bed with the fancy frame and those velvet, silk, heavenly sheets? Why isn't Max Thompson the confined boy who stops at a considerably immediate fashion if the girl feels any slight abnormal pain? And where is his chest hair?! Where was the red, brick, fireplace and fanciful candles flickering us warmth and vibrancy to the side of our curtained bed? Instead, here I am, on a less extravagant mattress with the less sensitive tubist of the Los Amigos High marching band on Thanksgiving day. Need I say, Max Thompson's lousy, piece of crap bedroom also happens to be the family garage. I would later yearn for my past Thanksgivings.


The sex persevered thirty minutes but the shame and guilt persisted a lifetime. The following summer, Max Thompson and I broke up; his mother forced him to go to a college that the rest of his six brothers went to, in some other town called Fresno. He left me a lonely, naive, thirteen year old girl and took with him to a college in Fresno: my virginity and chastity. He might have stunk and drooled while kissing, but he was still my Max Thompson, he was my sense of belonging, he gave me a purpose, he gave me the role of girlfriend; I felt affixed to that semblance.


With the thief of my virginity gone, I felt insecure around God, my parents, other family and friends, strangers, and everyone else on this planet. Max Thompson definitely sexed me up; we had sex too much to count and too much to depict which scene was the best, they all blurred together and sex became just sex instead of making love. I can't say I didn't get a kick out of it, but I can't say I was the one to propose every single time either. If we ever did it, it was contended by Max Thompson's stinky kisses down my shoulders. Disappointingly prompt, we are both undressed and I am laying on my front while he mounts me from behind- I prefer stuffing my face into a pillow in lieu of inspecting a horny boy's face. It is moaning loud and not talking that gets him to finish quicker. Sometimes it turns out conflictingly.


One day after school on the hideous flower patterned mattress, Max Thompson managed to get through with it without any of my attendance. I did not move and I did not moan. I solely laid still; he could have been seducing a corpse, but that did not cease his savage lust. When he achieved his crass task, an unexpected stream of tears cascaded out the corner of my eyes and I began sobbing. Soon, sobbing became bawling and I cried like that for so long; he left the room because he was confounded as to what to do with me. I cried because that afternoon I was deprecating sex with such resilient antagonism. I was mad at sex. I was ashamed of sex. It gave me such absurd guilt. I was disgusted in all ways of sex. I was imagining if all the other freshman at Los Amigos High were having sex or not. I was wondering if my angelic cousins Melissa, Courtney, or Valerie could ever do such a beastly deed, and if they would mingle with me anymore if they knew. I anticipated I was the only one having sex. I felt like sex was my biggest secret and undoubtedly, God would know in retrospect. But would God find out after, or would he be watching us in the moment of our disgusting lusting? I felt like sex was seducing me. And I felt like sex would eventually defeat me.


I was not raised a religious girl by my deranged parents, but my grandparents attempted to carry out a religion in me. They strictly took all my cousins and I to the St. Columban church for every Sunday's mass, although all the outlandish hymns and prayers bore us kids to sleep upon the harsh, callous benches and the only thing to keep us awake during the service was our grandmother sneaking us little wrapped tamarind candies; but never gum, chewing gum was always inappropriate at church. My parents are catholic too but they are less uptight. Eventually, I would only take up going to church with my cousins or grandparents.


My parents used to hug and kiss and goof around a lot. They used to be blissful even. As Yvonne's cancer kicked in, there was more fighting in the family than there was in my older sister's withering body. My dad was a cranky drunk. One night when I was three years old, and Yvonne was four, I found my dad laying flat on his back upon the middle of the living room floor. Sometimes my dad would pretend to be a horse and let me sit on his back while he walks around really silly on his palms and knees. This night, he was gone all day and I presumed him to play with me. He was laying on his back, leaving me no choice but to get astride onto his big hard belly- and I sat there upon my huge dad like the queen of all beer bellies. I sat there for so long, waiting for him to wake up and take me on a tour. In fear that he would leave again, I could not dismount myself, whether I needed a trip to the potty room or not. I sat there until I wet his big hard belly and he carried me off him, got up like a giant, and hollered like a mad man; his loud, unfamiliar voice dismayed me to the point that I never played horsey with him again. Of course, my mom was apprehensive for his awful yelling and they ended dramatically bickering that night. My mom abominates my dad for drinking, but my dad drinks because he abominates her for cheating on him.


The Children's Hospital of Orange County became part of my childhood because at a point in my sister's life, the doctors persisted her from staying home. Rapidly I memorized the locations of the gift store, the cafeteria, the playground, and I was on a first name basis with the nurses. She was to be treated everyday under the care of nurses and doctors at CHOC hospital, and my mom would take my cousins and I to visit her frequently. Around the name CHOC, there would always be a cute blue-outlined bear with a bandage wrapped around his arm and a red heart hovering next to his face. Yvonne's cancer consisted of thick, plastic tubes protruding out of her throat or inserted into her wrists, and no bandages. She was usually without hair; I'd forgotten what she did look like with it! Her tongue was plump and discolored with what looked like bruises and her body changed everyday. Her once slim rosy cheeks, were bigger and rounder and specked with a red open blemish. I never touched her unless I had to. I was afraid any touch I made, any tickle, any hug would hurt her. I was not afraid she would die because I was too young to understand death, but I was afraid someone might accidentally drop something inside the small hole in the front of her neck.


My cousins and I usually played outside where there was a nice playground, but my sister was always kept on her wheel chair with a wide rimmed hat to protect her face from sunlight. I dispatched myself from our cousins, who were steering the wheel of a fake ship, and walked over to stand next to Yvonne.


"Hi," I'd said.


She looked at me and smiled. She looked so different to me; what I saw in her face was a new, unfamiliar weakness, and the sun was so strong that day. I saw a packet of stickers loosely clutched inside her palm. And then I saw her looking blankly at my silly cousins. And then I saw my mom looking blankly at her. The sun was so strong that day.. I did not want the night to ever have to come to us, but it did.





Edited by Millennium
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  • 1 month later...

Your great at writing but I couldn't read anymore after the B.O part. I really don't like things like this, it's gross. I think you have strong a strong writing power though.

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  • 1 month later...

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