When He Was Done

 

Okay, I know. I am breaking the rules again. The experts tell me that when posting with the goal of getting people to read my fiction that I should never, ever post with original fiction. So, let me get this straight. If I want you to read my fiction and potentially buy my fiction, the last thing I should do is post my fiction where you can read it.

     What?

Alright, I am making fun of some very smart people, some of whom are actually making a living writing. I do pay attention to what they say every chance I get, but the bottom line to all of this comes down to two things:

I have never been a big fan of rules when it comes to writing, especially fiction. Anything goes as long as it is good. I see no reason not to apply that to blogging as well.

I write fiction. That’s what I do. While I try occasionally to draw you in with other posts, my life is not nearly interesting enough for posting week after week. I must rely on what the good Lord set down in my bones.

 

Anyway, enough rambling. Please enjoy the story below. If you like it, please spread the word. If you do not like it, then please keep quiet and pretend like you never read it and don’t know who I am.

 

Thanks,

Tim

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When He Was Done

 

He rose from her, panting, his heart still racing, pumping blood that warmed him from the inside out. He kissed her gently on the top of the forehead, promised he’d only be a minute and went to the bathroom to take a shower. Work was less than six hours away and the shower would help get him to sleep.

“I’ll sleep good with her by my side tonight,” he whispered to himself as he closed the door to the bathroom.

As he stepped under the lukewarm spray, a smile parted his lips. Who’d ever thought it would come to this? She was just some girl he had known here and there, a place to lay his head when there was no other place. But now it was this! Incredible! That’s what it was. Just incredible!

“You know what I was thinking,” he said as he came back into the bedroom now dressed in his robe and ready for bed. He stopped in his tracks when he saw her standing dressed in the middle of his bedroom, looking at him with a smirk on her face.

“What were you thinking?” she asked. “Or are you able to think at all now that the blood has rushed from that little thing between your legs?”

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I remember the last time you were at my place,” she said. “When we were done, you beat a path to my front door like you had contracted some kind of disease from me. You got what you wanted and you were gone. Just like that. Now, I have gotten what I wanted and I am gone.”

“Okay,” he said. He didn’t see this coming and didn’t know what else to say. “I can drive you if you like.”

“No,” she said. “That’s alright. I can manage on my own. I just have one question for you.”

“What’s that?” he asked.

“How does it feel to just be used for sex?” Her eyes were afire. She was angry. “How does it feel to be a booty call?”

Part of him wanted to tell her how he felt, what the real motivation behind the spur of the moment call to her but he didn’t. A bigger part of him, or a smaller part of him maybe, just wouldn’t allow his true feelings to show through. Ten minutes ago he really thought he was ready, but now, in the face of her anger, he wondered if he would ever be ready.

“Answer me, asshole!” she demanded. “How does it feel to be used just for sex?”

He shrugged, then he smiled.

“Felt pretty damned good,” he said. “Stop by anytime you feel like a booty call.”

His face was still stinging from the slap across the face when he heard the door slam. That door slam had a sound of finality to it, like she would never slam it again because she was so over him.

He doubted she was over him just yet, but she would be soon enough. She was strong like that. Always had been. She had to be to put up with an asshole like him. She wouldn’t waste any more tears on him than necessary, then she would move on.

It wouldn’t be that easy for him. He had played the tough guy for way too long. Treated her like the booty call she clearly was not to him. She had been once, but she was more than that to him now. Had been for some time.

“Still,” he said aloud to an empty room. “You didn’t let her know that, did you? Couldn’t let her know. What is wrong with you?”

Now she was gone.

Another good one was gone.

How many had it been? Too many too count. One after another, really, and he had to ask himself a question. Was it getting easier or harder to lose see them go?

He didn’t have an answer for that question.

He took off his robe, got in bed and turned out the light.

He had less than six hours to go before he had to be at work.

His cheek was still stinging from the slap, everything else was still ringing from her leaving. He had no one to blame but himself.

Shit!

 

Tim Keen

June 12, 2016

 

For more stories like this please check out my Kindle book After Hours. Thanks.