Hit me!

A short story. It might be continued, but at this point, I felt it was cool to just chuck it out to the wolves, albeit, a small herd of wolves. 

            She was on top. The gin let me remember at least that much. We had been dating three months. Sometimes, it felt like I was just being dealt the same hand over and over with her, stuck playing out 70 rounds of a one night stand deal.

 

            I don’t know how drunk she was, but I was smashed. A few times while she was grinding away atop me, I would have to hold out my hands to stop her from moving so much. The room was spinning enough as it was. I was getting close, so I told her to hit me. I always did when I got close.

 

            She smacked me, I told her to hit me harder. I saw stars and told her to hit me again.

 

            Her left hand hit. Her right hand hit, then her left again. I came right before the sixth slap with my brain over-red-lined, and my jaw stinging. I slept beautifully after that.

 

            I woke up ungracefully, stumbled to the sink and spit up a bit of blood. I pushed my tongue around my mouth to see if any of my teeth were loose. Everything was where it should be. She didn’t hit as hard as the others. There was the one who used her knuckles, she left bruises. Another one swung haymakers and gifted me with black eyes. My three month girl was a happy middle ground; No love taps, but no loose teeth either.

 

            I walked back to bed, and fell back asleep. She got up for work at some point, but didn’t say goodbye. She was always silent afterwards; no talking, and no exchange about the hitting. She just knew I wanted it, that I couldn’t finish without it, and complied to go through with it.

 

            After a couple of hours of hangover delaying sleep, I got up and walked to the living room. On the coffee table was an empty bottle of gin, a note adorned it, obscuring the label.

 

            It was her writing:

 

            “You need to stop drinking. I can take the hitting. I’m even kind of into it. But it’s either me or the booze.”

 

            I got dressed, grabbed the empty bottle off of the coffee table and walked it down the street to the nearest liquor store. It was less than a block, a half-quarter cigarette distance at best. They took empties for cash. I collected my dime for the bottle of gin, walked back home, and thought about stopping.

 

            I managed it for a day or two.

 

            On the third day, things got difficult, and from then on, more and more dimes started popping up around my place. She brought over an empty jar one day down the line, “for all that spare change you have kicking around.”

 

            I said thanks, and then popped a piece of gum into my mouth so that she wouldn’t smell or taste the rye when she kissed me.  

 

            A few nights later we’re at it again. She thinks I’ve been sober a week, and told me she’d reward me in the best possible way. I wasn’t drunk while we were fucking, but I’d snuck a few pulls off a mickey of vodka I kept in my jacket. I feel bad, undeserving of having her on top of me, and even more undeserving of the celebration head she just gifted me with.

 

            I tell her to hit me. She does. I tell her to hit me as hard as he can. She paused, not a flinch, but a pause. Then she hits me with a solid right to the eye. I deserved worse, but I didn’t think about that right then. Right then, everything was wine, roses, vodka, and hot shooting ecstasy and bliss.

 

            I didn’t look too bad in the mirror when I woke up the next day. There was nothing but a black eye. I was sure I could think up a good story for that; something involving muggers, some kind of fight where I was the victim.

 

            She went to work, and I went to the liquor store with a smile on my face, absolved of all my sins.   

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