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He’d be seeing her tonight.
He promised her she could drink as much as she wanted. He’d be there for her this time. She’d drink and get playful, but he’d be there. He’d make sure nothing happened. That no one touched her. No one but him, that is. He ran his hand over his chin. He wouldn’t bother shaving tonight. She didn’t care, and this wasn’t the night he’d pick up anyone.
Anyone but her, that is. And he never had to pick her up.

She was just there, whenever he asked. Whenever he told her to be. Maybe it was gratitude. He’d made her. No, he didn’t. But that’s what she thought, anyway. She didn’t really think it either, but somewhere, he did make her. Before, she was sexy as hell, but only with herself. Playing in front of the mirror, if she only let a man see, if in a hidden corner of the room there’d be a camera, someone watching, and they’d seen it, they would’ve gone wild. They would have grabbed her and gone through her like most people go through tissues. Ripped through. But she wasn’t like that. Before meeting him, she didn’t know. She was normal, just like every other invisible pussy in the world. But when he met her... She never knew what made her say yes. Maybe it was the lonesomeness. Maybe she was getting scared that she really was going to be alone for the rest of her life. 20 going on 90. She never had a boyfriend. Including him. He wasn’t a boyfriend. He was a fuck up. He was a lover, a mad man, passionate and angry, but he wasn’t her boyfriend. She never knew how to ask, and he never knew she wanted one, anyway. She still thought in that little fuck-the-world naive mind of hers, while he didn’t think at all. His way was much easier. You had an itch, you scratched. You saw a beautiful pussy by the bar; you’d try to get it. You had a pussy in your bed; you’d probably go out and look for another one. Not with her, maybe. Oh, he fucked other when she was in his life, but never in front of her.

He never told her. There was no point. she knew that if she got any closer, he’d hurt her. And she’d hurt herself. She always hurt herself. But he had made her. That night at the bar, God knows what brought her in. she never went to bars alone. She wasn’t the type to get picked up by men, she was one of those sickening up-town girls, who didn’t fit in her own picture perfect world.
Rebelling teens?
But sometimes he saw that in her. He saw not just the princess who wanted to rebel and hate the world and fuck tradition and kill all her family all that bullshit, there was something there. Especially when she cut herself. The first time he saw her with the blade, it seemed like what every average suburban girl would do. Got a problem? Cut it. But they all did do it for poses. Cut yourself hard enough, clear enough, so everyone could see. Not her. She learned; she made clean cuts that seemed terrible the first day or two, but quickly disappeared. And no one knew. Except for him. He saw her do it. She cut herself to feel. She cut herself because that’s when she actually could feel something except for all the fucking pain. All the god damn sadness.

How could such a fucked up bleeding creature turn men on like that? Never made any fucking sense. A typical only child, pampered by her parents who were too much around which she hated and would also hate if they had never been around.
When he met her at the bar the first night, it was already last call, and she was just sitting by the bar, drinking. He guessed it would be an easy pick, right down to her 500$ Levis store-bought jeans. So he tried his stuff. She didn’t move. He pulled her face gently, trying to see what was her angle. She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t anything. He paid her tab, since she didn’t seem to give a fuck either way, and pulled her out of there. He took her back to his place. She went in first, and before he understood what was going on, she was already hitting on the bottle of vodka that leaned comfortably on the bed. She just sat and drank with a blank face. He stood in front of her.
Most men couldn’t see it, but he had an eye for the hidden talent. The thighs rounded up nicely. The blouse, showing off her neck. She didn’t have cleavage or anything, her breasts weren’t big enough, but he liked it that way. He looked at her as she drank.

“You should put a towel on the bed. I’m a virgin.” He wasn’t surprised. She looked out of touch. He went to the bathroom and put a towel on the bed, and went back to her. Standing in front of her, he wasn’t sure what to do. He liked pillaging the virgins. He knew he couldn’t just jump her. This one required special attention. She put down the vodka, after downing about half of the bottle, and got up. Slowly. He knew there was a reason he liked her. She got up slowly on purpose, making sure her face was close enough to his body, and he smiled. Who would’ve thought, a talented virgin? She looked into his eyes with the bottle in her hand. She put her hands around his neck, and he tried to kiss her. She just moved her face away and hugged him. He put his hands around her. She might require more time. Then she slowly moved her head and rubbed her nose over his neck. He gently pulled her closer. He put his hands in her back pockets. She had a round soft ass. He kissed her forehead, and she slowly raised her head. “I don’t know how to kiss.” She said quietly, making sure he still couldn’t quite reach her lips. He raised her head by the chin. He kissed her. He pulled out a tissue from his pocket and wiped her mouth from the lipstick. She just stared at him. Then he kissed her again, this time longer. When they stopped, a tear rolled down from her eyes. She blinked quietly. She didn’t seem sad. He traced the teardrop with his hand. She took her hands away from his neck, put down the bottle and pulled up her shirt. Half off the shoulder, over the head. She was wearing a black bra, her round little breasts comfortably settled but gently peeking through. He kissed her again, harder this time, pulling her closer.
He started wrapping his arms around her, and she gently hugged him. When the kiss was over, he realized she wasn’t letting go. From this point on, it was usually smooth sailing. Pretty soon all their clothes were strewn across the floor. Her kisses grew harder and more desperate, and the more he ran his hands over her body, the warmer her body got, the more she tried to please. Between kisses she drank more vodka. He didn’t mind. He liked the taste.

It went as usual. She was quiet, kissing him now and again, sometimes quietly sighing. He tried to be as gentle as he knew. He didn’t have much alcohol in his system, so he could control himself. Usually he was more aggressive. He liked to see the hurt in their eyes, but this time, it didn’t really matter. He could tell by her eyes that whatever hurt he’d inflict wouldn’t be relevant right now.

They fucked.

Actually, this was as close to making love as he’d ever gotten before. But he never really knew about her. It could have been a fuck. In could have been love. Whatever it was, it was sex, and it was in and out till he screamed and she quietly moaned. After he came, he lay quietly on the bed. She didn’t come. Virgins hardly ever do. He didn’t think she cared much. She just lay there. He pulled out a cigarette and smoked. She didn’t want one. She doesn’t smoke.

He tried to say something but she quietly tried to smile and said: “Don’t worry, it’s not you.” Then she really did smile. So did he. They lay there for a while, forever in her mind and seconds in his, and she got up. “You can stay the night if you want.” He said. He was being generous. Though they never really wanted to stay anyway. She went to the bathroom. When she came back, her face was washed, and she had put on lipstick. Not one of those shiny colors, just pale. She ran her hand over her forehead. He rolled to his side and looked at her. She picked up her pants and pulled them on. She had put on her bra when she went to the bathroom. She looked around for her blouse. She wasn’t really beautiful, she didn’t have a great body. But there was something about her. He didn’t want this to end right now. He wasn’t in love or anything. He just didn’t want her to leave. Not now. Not like that.
She put on her blouse and sat on the bed to put on her shoes. His hands slowly crawled across the bed and embraced her. He was lying right next to her now. She smiled and for a moment, a single moment, ran her hand gently over his hand. She quickly kept putting on the shoes, as though their hands touching had been the most daring thing she had done all night long.

“Don’t worry.” He said. He wanted to say something better. He wanted to say something that meant something. All he could say was “Don’t worry.”

She turned her head to him and gently kissed him on the lips. Something about the way she carried herself. The way she acted when he touched her. He could feel himself getting hard again. She picked up his cellphone. He grabbed his pants and underwear off the floor. He’d made it a custom to walk the girls to the cab. You know, to make sure they didn’t totally hate him. Every time he fucked a virgin she either never talked to him again, or wouldn’t leave his fucking flat. She threw the cellphone on the bed and said: “There’s my number. Call me sometime. If you feel like it.” He couldn’t tell if she really meant it. Not that he cared.
As she walked to the door he stopped her, trying to get a glimpse of whatever it was that caught his interest. She looked into his eyes, and he ran his hand across her cheek. “Are you okay?” he asked. He didn’t even mean to ask it, he just wanted to fuck her again. But the words just came out. She smiled, ran her hand through his hair, and then went around to the door.
“Every other day” he said.
She turned. “I’ll call you, you know, every other day.” She gently nodded, and left. What the fuck went through his mind?

A long time had passed since and he’d taught her. Now she knew how to kiss. She knew how to fuck. She knew how to make a man cum from across a room. He never asked her what she did when she wasn’t with him, and she never spoke. Sometimes she’d meet him after crying, and she’d tear the clothes off of him, tie him in bed, lick things off of him, bite down on him. and sometimes she took everything painfully slowly, and they’d play all night and only fuck at daybreak. They met every other day. Sometimes they fucked. Sometimes he talked. Usually someone drank. Sometimes it wasn’t every other day, sometimes it was once a week, other times once a day. But usually, it was just, you know, every other day.

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