Last night was a bad night, or at least the beginning of it was.

The fact that I am posting this in “The Little Shop of Horrors” should tell you – warn you – that what follows could be triggering, could lead to nightmares, could lead to other things . . .

Which is why I am posting it.

It all started with Channel 52, Turner Classic Movies.  They were playing “Doctor Zhivago” which I had seen before.  (In looking up that link I saw that it was released in 1965 – which about supports what happened and what I felt, thought, and perhaps believe).

I turned to my wife and asked her if she’d ever seen the movie.  She said no, and I was amazed because it is a classic love story – one I love, and like seeing on occasion (which is rare for me – usually having seen a movie once, I am done with it – forever).

But I remembered (having NEVER forgot) that my parents once left us to go see a movie . . .

and I wondered, thought, and felt . . . it was “Doctor Zhivago” . . . and then that night came to me . . . and I wondered: was it THAT night?  Was THAT the night they went to see “Doctor Zhivago“?

I don’t know and I reckon it’s not important . . . but it was.  While they were sitting there watching a beautiful love story I was being abused.  Running around the house screaming.  Raped.  A finger up my ass.  Sucking off a dog.  Doing other things that night that hurt and I don’t want to remember . . .

So (switching) – I turned to my wife and said: “I’m going to bed.” (tho’ it was not me; we were F’d up, me ‘inside’, another one – the little one? – taking “over”) . . .

and we went to bed.  And we kept our underwear on (which is a strange thing; normally we sleep in the buff – something our wife does, and taught us from the very beginning of our going to bed with her) . . .

and when she went to drape her leg over my thigh (as she often does) I put my knee up, blocking her . . .

and my lips hurt.  The inside of my lips, and I tasted blood . . .

and I knew what that was.  I knew what that was from.

It was from curling my lips in while giving HIM a blowjob.  It was from having the insides of my lips CUT by my own teeth as he shoved it in . . . and out . . . and in again, a million, a hundred times.

“Protect your teeth, cover them,” – and he showed me how.  Turning my lips in to cover my teeth, giving him a firm smooth surface (slick, too, from my own spit and later my blood) to rub on.

And that’s what I remember.

’nuff said.

(hurting inside; but not real bad; just real ‘upset’ in some undefinable ways . . .)

Go figure.

I can’t.

Body memories.  Whutta bitch.

’nuff said again.  Tho’ come (cum) to think about it . . . I’ll never be done with this shit.  Cuz’ it hurt like hell … him pushing it in, the sharp pain – and me NOT being happy he was doing it – or ME doing it – but HIM doing it anyway and ME not complaining none cuz’ I didn’t want to hurt him none

while he was hurting me.


In some ways.

’nuff said.

again and again and again and again and again . . .

that’s the way memories should be? (asking, stating a question)