He comes to me when he's drunk, invading my space and forcing me to tolerate his touch to my body. I truly hate it. It's all I can do to endure the hours till he finally passes out. Until then he will continually spout off, trying to entice me with his vulgarity. His attempts are futile and reprehensible.

If he came to me sober, if he, with sincerity and affection, expressed a desire to be with me, I might be able to rekindle the now dead desire to be touched. I don't know.

Once upon a time it was all that I wanted. I cried myself to sleep, endless night after endless night. Somewhere along the line, some time after a decade of rejection, I finally became numb. I adjusted to a loveless life, to being deprived of the love and affection I once craved.

All I now know is that the drunk man is repulsive to me. I tell him so when he's sober. He laughs disbelievingly. In his little macho mind he thinks I'm playing at being hard, that deep down I really still want him. I know better.

He finally snores in the other room. I gratefully sigh with relief. For the time being my time is mine, my body and mind free of molestation. It's these moments I now live for ...

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