Your 1st Is Nothing to Be Squeezed At
It was her seventh day on the job, and she already wants to quit. All her life, she wanted to help people. Since she was a little, she had this yearning to be a healer, even a medic. Not because it was about a woman’s nature and all that bullshit, it was not because of something that occurred in her family that was so dramatic.
Nothing of the sort. She saw this four-year-old boy fascinated by colorful Band-Aids and plastered them on himself. At nine years old, she wondered what it’d be like to be that person to put those Band-Aids on someone. How’d she love to see the kilowatt smiles from someone whose life you made a difference?
She resolutely poured herself into every medical learning she could absorb. Turns out she had a natural knack for it. Blood, brains, and bones never stood a chance with her. You scrape-a knee, come to her. Life-threatening accident. She’s your lady. Need a midwife, call someone else. She did that once, and no thanks. Mothers can be such drama queens. Most people are drama. Worse, they’re liars.
She thinks people are inherent liars. Stupid lunches with gossip, girl’s nights out that fizzle or spark a feud, drinking dates that either never happen or fail expectations. “Liking” social media posts you don’t care for at all. Pretending not to be jealous when you. Pretending you’re not wanting raw, primal sex when all your illicit thoughts scream as loud as jet afterburners. She’s thinking... that most things and people lie.
She’s thirty-one. Lie. She’s actually forty-two.
She works as an emergency medical worker. Lie. She’s an emergency management coordinator.
She’s been married for six years. They both work, but outside of that, Clementine values her time alone. Lie. Lie. Lie.
She’s single, but she’s the side chick of a married man. She hates being alone. Not a lie.
She wants a kind and perfect husband. They can have nonexistent romantic getaways. Lie as a motherfucker. She wants a husband. That part is true. She prefers him to be full of raw masculine “fuck me with a passion so often my vagina weeps” every time he’s not inside her body. She wants him to put her in her place when she has an attitude. Get drunk with her when she has a bad day. She wants him to argue with her. She doesn’t want a bland marriage. She wants a spicy relationship. She wants him to sate himself and be selfish.
Oh yeah, she likes her life. Yep. She thinks people are great at lying.
She wants it. But she pretends she doesn’t. She lies to herself. She wants to run. Screaming. She shares with her friends how happy she is. Lying.
Her fuck buddy sexes her sometimes on her backside, sometimes on her mound. Always making sure she’s okay. So kind to ask. Liar. She always replied that she enjoyed herself. Not a lie. She enjoys the penetration, but she lies about the level of pleasure I have. She knows about climaxes, but she never felt like I had an orgasm. Lubrication doesn’t count. We lie to ourselves because we don’t want to hurt the ones we care about. They’re an oasis for our heart or their bank account.
My lover gets me. He doesn’t mind me going solo to drink. I don’t think he cares where I go. When I’m gone, he just sleeps. As a paramedic and ambulance sales rep, he does a lot at work. Sometimes I wish something to be wrong. Or that I had a baby. Or a side partner. To live a lie.
In our minds, we deal with insight blocked by illusion. The belief we are separated is the greatest enemy in our world.
If you walk the streets enough time, you find out pretty quick how hungry the people are. Before she agreed to be a side chick, she had been in a relationship until a falling out. He has nothing bad to say about Clementine, because she treated him better than any female he had experienced. She was patient. She was nurturing, kind, submissive, loyal, and a super freak.
She’s not shaped like Pokémon’s Mew-Two and not a hundred percent eye-candy, but he still liked her. He wasn’t a beta male cuckold simp. Red pill or get spilled... He was not an alpha chump, but he had a fish memory. He couldn’t remember the color of her nipples, let alone what time to pick her up for a date.
They attended separate colleges in the same city. She always wanted him to see her and spend the night in her dorm. They were usually homebodies. They had a routine. Around night, after spending a couple of hours together, she’d cook a meal for both, then throw on some easy-access clothes, like booty shorts, then they’d let the television watch them as they chilled in her bed. His phallic pole would brush up against her butt, and this ignited her being down for anything. She was a closet freak, and he was one, too. Although he lacked experience with swimming in her personal Niagara Falls.
Words escape even the most cunning tongue...
...like wanting to be a little whore queen for one man.
It’s not fear that grips her, only restlessness. A heightened sense of things. The breeze coolly kissed the sweat on her neck. Her roar is long and loud.
She is a queen. And she’s fucking tired of living a lie.
To have a mate who will find it an honor to die at her side or live by it. To have friends who remember why she died. She doesn’t care for tribute or song, nor monuments or poems. All she wishes is to be remembered across countless generations, so voices may whisper from ageless stones. Here lies a woman who did not lie.
She types on her tablet as she thinks.
Oh, ancient queens of the eldritch night, what incantations have they for me?
Great Mystras, the Mother of all Magic, cataclysmic sister of darkness, mistress to Lord Ao the overgo. Oh, Lady who rides the cosmic winds amongst the stars. Whose moon-blood cannot be staunched and flows in a cycle to all women. What gifts shall you grant me?