Certain Tragedy

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Why am I always the last to know?

I try so hard to convince myself that I believe it. I want to believe that I don't care. And I do believe it. But what is belief anyway? I mean, it doesn't really serve and practical purpose. It doesn't keep you warm at night; it doesn't help you get to work on time; it doesn't finish your essays for you. So why do we place so much stock in belief? Really, all beliefs are simply ideas we have settled on, based on a series of sensory experiences. They don't tell us anything real, anything factual. They just back up what we want to know. Well, I know that I hardly know anything. So where does that leave me?

If you believe something is true, is it because you want it to be, or is it because you're afraid that it is? Or is it really the truth? I'm inclined to think that most people believe things because they want them to be true. I do. Why else would I be sitting here thinking about this?

Take, for example, Exhibit A: the boy from the bus.
Now, I convinced myself that I didn't think twice about it. Is that the real truth? No. I know, in actuality, I spent a great deal of time thinking about him. Not just him, necessarily, but this delightful little situation that I seem to be finding myself in, of late. I don't know what I'm doing, and it's freaking me out. And the fact that I had no control over the way I reacted to him also freaks me out. I am always in control. Control of myself. Control of my emotions. Control of my body. But all of those things betrayed me. I didn't want to give them the opportunity to do it again.

But it's not like I can exactly lock myself up, away from all human contact. And I knew sooner or later, I was bound to run into another individual who would be able to crack, what I thought was my impenetrable barrier of nonchalance and disinterest. That's really what he had done. That's why I was so scared. He had unknowingly forced a ,i>response from me. Not something clever or contrived, or aimed at getting me what I wanted, but an automatic relflexive action that I was usually able to keep under wraps.

And that was unacceptable.

So I did the only thing I could think of to help me gain mastery of this equation once again.

I saw my target walking across the campus courtyard, not at a brisk pace, which made it easy for me to prepare for him. He walked into Old Main, and I walked towards him. Just as our paths crossed, I accidentally tripped over his foot, and my books went flying across the floor. My cheeks turned red, and he leaned down to help me pick up my books. My hand brushed his slightly, and I looked up to find him looking directly into my eyes.

Perfect.

Fuck, this was easier than I thought.

Twenty minutes later, we were in the handicapped bathroom stall. I told him that I needed some help washing my books off. He knew I didn't, but he followed anyway. And as he pushed me up against the wall, I knew I couldn't let him get away with this. This was my situation.

I grabbed his shirt by the collar, and pushed him to the floor. I could see by the look in his eyes that he was used to being the dominant sexual partner, but no such luck today. The look of surprise was soon replaced by his head rolling back, and a moan escaping his parted lips. His eyes closed and I straddled him, grinding my hips against his. He was so hard, and I was ready to go, but I had to make sure that he knew I won.

I threaded my fingers from one hand through his hair, and pulled his head back up, crushing my mouth against his in a bruising kiss. My free hand roamed down his chest, unbuttoning his collared shirt to feel the smooth skin it covered. I could feel his breathing quicken in my mouth as my hand reached lower, finally covering the territory it was destined for. I unzipped his pants one-handed, and deftly pulled him free. I wasted no time pulling off my panties, but instead hiked up my skirt, pushed them aside and impaled myself on his throbbing cock.

I still had my hand in his hair, and I pulled hard, forcing his face level with mine. He opened his eyes, showing me the victory I craved. I pulled away from him as he tried to kiss me again, still looking in his eyes, so he could see what I was denying him, and that I was doing so purposefully. I wouldn't let him kiss me, so his hands moved to other areas. One clumsily found its way under my bra to fondle my left breast, and the other gripped around my thigh, probing at the sensitive skin attached to his. I arched my back as I pounded myself against him, making my thrusts harder and harder. The only sound in the room was the thudding of flesh on flesh, mixed with heavy breathing and the occasional moan. His mouth found my nipple, and I felt my body grow even more heated than before. I needed release so badly, I would do anything to get it at that point. I slammed myself against him roughly, and no thought of his pleasure crossed my mind. This was about me, and control, and getting off.

I came quickly, and as soon as I was finished I grabbed my books and left him gasping on the floor, erection still pulsating, slick with the juices I had left on him. I didn't even give him the courtesy of a hand job. Well, that little fucker deserved it. Most of them do. Fucking pricks.

I never even asked him his name.