3:AM Magazine

whenever t rex and I did it, he invariably pulled my ass to the edge of the bed.
it seemed the only way he could work up enough friction
to get himself off.
I blamed his small penis.
there’d never been any complaints
about the size of my pussy before.
it seemed the only logical explanation.

because of this we never came together.
instead, I came first,
him flat on top of me
my fingers grabbing his ass
pulling him in closer/deeper
somewhere where I could feel something/anything.
by the time I finally came
my hands were completely numb.

after that he’d scoot me
grabbing hold of my ankles
to the edge of the bed,
my ass overhanging
my feet planted firmly on the ground.

there he’d push his small dick
halfway inside me,
working it like that:
in & out
in & out
and I’d count along
one, two, three…
an adult guessing game:
how many strokes will it take?
until finally he’d fall over onto me
his tiny penis already shriveling out.

I never minded, though;
I forgave him his small penis,
his unorthodox technique.
aside from being a shitty lay
he was an alright guy.
tall, athletic, in a band.
when we weren’t fucking
we were having an okay time:
smoking pot / watching horror films,
ordering in chinese,
listening to pink floyd.

until the night the condom came off inside me
and I pitched a pretty fit.

“what the hell is this?” I demanded.
pointing at the pissed out rubber floating in the toilet.
“do you have any idea what it’s like
walking through those lines of fetus-loving assholes
to place your feet in cold, metal stirrups,
waiting for the anesthesia to take effect
so they can rip out your insides?”

from the look on his face, I could see that he did not.
I told him goodbye. I didn’t bother with an “I’ll call.”
a small penis is one thing.
prophylactic carelessness another.
he should have taken the necessary precautions.
he should have rubber banded that shit on.

in the morning I called planned parenthood.
a monotone voice informed me of my options:
if I had an IUD inserted within 24 hours
the pregnancy wouldn’t take.
“sign me up,” I said.
the last thing I wanted was another abortion.
and I sure as hell wasn’t having t rex’s kid.

my appointment was for 4:45.
by 5 o’clock I was screaming louder
than I did giving birth.
“there’s a lot of scar tissue to get through,”
the gynecologist said, seesawing her hand skyward,
giving it another try.

I held tight to the sides. bit my lip ‘til it bled.
“if you can make it through the next 30 seconds,”
she told me,
“you’ll be good for ten years.”

it sounds like a decent tradeoff –
thirty seconds for ten years -
until you’re flat on your back,
legs spread wider than they’ve ever been before-
wider than they were when you got yourself into this mess-
and some fifty year old, three hundred pound
lesbian with bad aim
is ramming your cervix
with a t-shaped
piece of copper.

t rex called for five days after that. I didn’t answer.
I sat and listened as he spoke into my machine.
I was still nursing my wounds.
I was still real ticked off.
by the sixth day I was feeling better.
I’d stopped bleeding and I wasn’t as mad.

come on over, I told him when he called.
I didn’t go through all that for nothing, I said.

he brought the poltergeist trilogy with him.
we sat on my bed, smoking a bong and eating won ton.
afterward I climbed on top.
it was the first time we made it together.
maybe a change of position was all we’d needed all along.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Elizabeth Ellen is the author of Before You She Was A Pit Bull (Future Tense Press). She lives in Ann Arbor.

First published in 3:AM Magazine: Tuesday, January 30th, 2007.