“Love”

Bobby and his girlfriend had been going out for four years. They were inseparable through high school and got each other gifts for every anniversary and holiday they could. They were that couple everyone talked about. That one their classmates couldn’t see not together. And Bobby couldn’t see that either. He loved his girlfriend and he knew she loved him.

But she wouldn’t do certain things. She wouldn’t paint her nails because she said there were toxins in the paint. He really liked painted fingernails, and toenails for that matter, but she wouldn’t do it. She wouldn’t pick up her side of the bill even though she knew he’d already spent his money on getting her gifts. She said it was the man’s job to pay for things like that. It was only natural.

She also wouldn’t give him head. This was maybe the only one he saw a remedy to. She didn’t like his hair down there. Any hair down there. Everybody had it, he told her, but she wouldn’t listen. It didn’t matter how many times he went down on her or how many times she promised she’d give him something special for his birthday or Christmas. He’d always end up frustrated and alone. Tomorrow was his eighteenth birthday. He knew he had to do something. Or he’d end up in his maroon bathroom with a bottle of lotion like he was tonight while the ocean spray air freshener drowned out the smell of his sweat. And his failure. His friends already made fun of him for it. They said he’d have to be whipped to let her get away with that. That he was a pussy. Maybe he was. He didn’t want to be. He just couldn’t say no to her. After she came, she’d pull up her leggings and wink at him. Next time she’d say. But next time would never come.

At least that’s how it was. Bobby would make sure there wasn’t an excuse the next time he finished her off and pulled his pants down. Bobby squirted a bottle of Nair on his crotch and was surprised by the foul odor. He rubbed it everywhere that hair was. It stung but he tried not to think about it. He turned on the shower and hoped the sound would calm him. He took in the ocean spray and the sickly smell of Nair while he waited for the feeling of his skin melting to subside. He wondered what she got him for his birthday. Maybe a pair of sneakers he’d been looking at or the new FIFA. Maybe she’d paint her nails. He hoped she would. He really hoped so.

The pain was immeasurable. He’d done so much for her. So many things he wouldn’t normally do. Wasn’t it her turn? God it burnt. Wasn’t she supposed to do something she didn’t want to too? Wasn’t that what love was? At least that’s what his parents said. Was he missing something?

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About Michael Ferro

Michael is a writer from Myrtle Beach, South Carolina who usually spends his time fishing or playing guitar. When he's not doing that, he's usually sleeping.