Free Crazy Enough by Storm Large

hours.

    It was one of those stinging, sweat-soaked marathons where parts of your body ache and cramp where other bits lose all sensation from the desperate pounding. I don’t know if it was the coke or the booze, but the guy stayed marble hard and could not come.
    I refused to stop or even wince, for fear of betraying the hurting parts. I was all pornographic moaning and a squealing good time.
    My stubbornness in keeping the good times rolling wasn’t so much for Mr. Marathon Esquire; he was good looking enough and not too bad a guy from what I could tell. No, my hell-bent determination to fuck through the pain was to bruise this into his memory banks. All of his future encounters would be compared to this one, to me.
    This was my power. This was my only grip on being something, anything. I would replay in his head while he throbbed in his hand or some other sucking mouth.
    Raw and sore himself, he finally called a temporary ceasefire. I tucked him into my mouth cooling off his dick by swirling ice cubes around it with my tongue. He was holding my head up by my hair. Suddenly, looking down at my face, with my makeup having been all fucked off, he must’ve seen the kid I actually was.
    â€œHow old are you?” he asked, a bit out of breath.
    â€œMmmummph?” I hummed around him and the ice.
    â€œHow. Old. Are. You. Really?” The word really trailed off with the unmistakable ring of already knowing the answer and that the answer was all kinds of bad. I never really considered the legal ramifications of these scenarios. Pretty much every man I screwed around with was older than me except one guy in high school who was my age. Mr. Marathon actually sounded scared. Jesus, friends and some family were all over this house sleeping off the hot day and the buckets of free wedding liquor.
    He could be seriously fucked if anyone even saw him here. Poor guy.
    He pulled my head up quick by my hair and looked at me harder through the dim light.
    His cock popped out of my mouth so I tapped it lightly on my chin, smiled and cooed sweetly and reassuringly up his sweaty torso. “Okay, okay, I’m thirteen.” I went back to licking him. “Why?” I asked, tapping him against my lips, smiling.
    Gotcha.
    To this day I don’t know why I lied to the guy, but the look on his face was priceless. The surge of panic, wrestling with desire, wrestling with eons of law school, reputation, more panic, and more lust stoked by the very, very, wrong thing going on, so dirty, so bad.
    â€œHurry up and finish,” was all he could manage.
    Power.

    Right around that time, my dad showed me how to break a guy’s thumb by pinning it back against his wrist, a trick he picked up in the Marine Corps. It’s a move so painful, he explained, I could drop a guy much bigger than myself. I assumed that he taught me that trick because he thought I was strong enough to be on my own, and didn’t mind that I was always gone. I asked him recently why he didn’t freak out or punish me: make me stay home, send me to military school, break my legs, and so on. He said he was terrified that if he tried to control me, it would push me even farther, that I would have run away for good, gotten arrested, or worse.
    I had plenty of run-ins with cops, but thankfully didn’t get arrested until I was eighteen (for possession of a class B substance, cocaine, and contributing to the delinquency of minors; the secondcharge was ironic because the sixteen-year-old, whose delinquency I was supposedly contributing to, was my dealer). Being eighteen, though, meant my dad wasn’t called. I spent one chilly night in a cell by myself, was fined four hundred dollars, and was told, if I paid on time, since it was my first offense, the charges would be taken off my record.
    We’ll see, if I ever run for office or try to marry a prince or something.
    Besides that tiny footnote from my late teens, there were, of course, stupid