State of Affairs by Samson Tonauac

I used to think the worst thing in life was to end up all alone. It's not. The worst thing in life is to end up with people who make you feel all alone. - Robin Williams

5:57pm - You text him, ‘So whatcha cooking tonight babes?’ Hearing from him makes you smile, gives you comfort. It's like a drug and you're addicted. You take a shot of vodka.

6:03pm - You check your phone. Okay, this is not the first time you’ve checked your phone since you sent the text a few minutes ago. You wonder where he is, what he is up to. He’s probably just eating more pizza you tell yourself. He's definitely not with another woman you think subconsciously. You take another shot. 

7:04pm - Still no response. How many times have you checked your phone hoping for something? Five, ten ... closer to a hundred, more than you'd like to admit. You've had way too many shots at this point.

7:05pm - You pull out your vibrator, pull down your sweatpants/panties at the same time, go at it vigorously. You need the release.

7:07pm - You orgasm, if you can call it that. A convulsion… or two, but you really couldn’t get into it no matter how hard you tried. Hoping for a release all you feel is worse. You look at your phone, it stares back at you in silence. Where the hell is he? Is he out fucking someone else…?, you now think a little too loud—aloud. 

7:30pm - You try to watch some TV, but nothing interests you as you aimlessly flip through the channels. You need your fix, you need to hear from him. Vodka, cum, they are no substitutes for your real addiction.

7:42pm - You tuck yourself into bed, pull up the covers, toss and turn before finally falling into a restless sleep.

8:11pm, 8:53pm, 9:07pm, 11:11pm ... - You awake several times and check your phone, there are messages, but not the messages you were hoping for. Your niece sending your pictures of her kid, your mom reminding you of the upcoming holiday and family get together—she asks if you are bringing your boyfriend. 

3:35am - You wake up, check your phone. ‘Sorry, I fell asleep after gorging myself on a bucket of fried crab ears.’ You smile and go back asleep. 

4:11am - You wake up, check your phone. No new messages. You laugh a little about his text message. So you open the messenger to read it again—to get your fix, knowing it won't be as good as the first time, but a fix nevertheless. But the last message isn’t from him, it’s from you…. Then you realize the 3am text must of been nothing but a dream—a ghost text from your subconscious to make you feel better. To help you finally get the rest you so desperately needed. Distraught, you lean over the side of the bed, throw up a bit in your mouth, but not enough to make a mess on the floor. Off to the bathroom you go—your subconscious, trying to do you a favor, only made you feel worse.

4:15am You zip up your coat after relieving yourself. Smells strong, too much vodka last night—dehydrated. Walking down the rickety stairs to your rust bucket of a car, hop in, head out. You're on a mission. 

4:33am You drive by his house, but his car is not there. ‘What the hell,’ your mummer. ‘He said he was going straight home from work last night but just needed some alone time. Lying sack of shit.’

4:36am You text him, ‘Where the fuck are you, I'm at your house.’

5:11am Back home you strip naked and jump into a warm bubble bath not knowing what else to do. Your phone next you, hoping for a response, hoping you didn't go too far—hoping you're not becoming a psychotic stalker. You lay in the water, it cools—you drain some, fill it back up with more hot water—you stair at the wall, a million thoughts running through your mind. Panicked. Hurt. Confused. 'What did I do wrong.’ 

6:10am You text your boss you won't be in today. Still no response from your boyfriend.

2:17pm You awake to the familiar ding of the text. Nervous and excited your lunge for your phone. It is your boss, 'Feel any better?' The two of you get to talking and decide to go out for a few drinks later that night. 'Fuck Franklin, he doesn't want me, I'll go be with someone who does,' you think to yourself. It feels good to be wanted—even if just sexually wanted. 

8:54pm - 9:21pm A few too many drinks down, but not too many that you don't still have revenge on your mind—you're at your boss' house, pants off, shirt still on, on your back, him inside of you. Angry at your supposed boyfriend, angry at the world, you take it out on your boss, scratch his back—the harder you scratch, the harder he slams into you—he continues going for what seems like an eternity though the clock only shows ten minutes or so have passed. The longer he pounds you, the more you enjoy—the wetter you become ... until you reach that moment, that climax ... you cum on his cock—pussy pulsating—you never came before through intercourse alone. You finally get the release you so desperately needed. 

9:21pm 'Ding!' It's your phone, you reach for it and open your text messages. It's Franklin's mom, ' Franklin's in the hospital, he just woke up. We're at Saint Slothnic, come as quick as you can.' You shimmy your way backwards on the bed, your boss slides out of you—squirts everywhere. 'What the fuck man, you just came all over my phone, all over me! My boyfriend's in the hospital and this is what you do to me?' 'Come on, we both enjoyed it,' he smirks. He throws you a towel, tells you not to be late for work tomorrow. You wipe the cum off your shirt, wipe the phone on his bed covers, throw on your clothes, rush to the hospital.

Arriving at the hospital, Franklin's mom tells you that he drove himself to the emergency room last night, after eating a bucket of Connecticut Fried Crab (CFC) ears. Of course, what you don't know is that yes, he did eat a whole bucket of CFC crab ears, but he also downed one too many Viagra pills because the bastard was out cheating on you all last night with your boss' secretary, which sent him into cardiac arrest after having an erection lasting more than four hours. Apparently grease, sex, and over exerting oneself don't go well together. All of this is okay though, because you don't know; and what you don't know, can't hurt you. You're both shell-schocked, cum covered, cum crusted crustaceans of a sort.

You embrace your lover. He smells of sex and crabs, you smell of sex and vodka, but the good news is, he'll live, you'll live, you will both be alright. Inside you're devastated by what you did, that you cheated, but you will never tell him—and he will never tell you. You both live happily ever after, after getting married, after having a few kids. You never cum again through intercourse alone—but you are not alone, that's all that matters, and that's why vibrators were invented. It all works out in the end. Happily ever after.

Advert: Lonely sock looking for its long lost sole mate. Went missing 20+ years ago, owner still hoping to reunite the pair. Call Clive W. Rossak if found at … # blocked, suspected spam.

Raw unedited.