A/N: So this would be my first modern short story/novel. I'm experimenting with a lot of themes; it's a bit confessional but not wholly autobiographical. I'm trying to evoke a bit of Isadora Wing from Fear of Flying with the whole modern woman on a journey about sexual fulfillment and personal growth. It's blunt and a bit graphic. But I'm truly hoping I get some readers. Thanks and enjoy!

INTRODUCTION: The Similarities Between Anal Sex and Getting Inked, or This is Cassandra Gudiashvili

There’s a theory out there about tattooed girls liking anal sex. I certainly can’t speak for all the kinky inked ladies out there--or even the kinky non-inked ladies, but this is the theory I came up with while laying curled up in my sheets, shaking a bit and exhausted:

Anal sex is a lot like getting a tattoo. There’s the huge adrenalin rush that, after getting comfortable in whatever position and going at it for a few minutes, wears off. Then you start feeling the pain; but it’s not like getting pierced, where the pain is acute and over quickly. It’s a repetitive pain. The needle, the dick, whatever it is, starts hurting ten minutes in because you’re extra sensitive and just now realizing that it might last for another good half hour, or an hour if he (the tattooer or the lover, take your pick. Sometimes they are one in the same, but I’ll get to that later) blasts through it with everything he has. You lay there, gripping to leather or cushion, enduring this awful pain that only sort of feels good because the final product (ink or orgasm, take your pick) is worth it. You are on the edge of falling off the cliff, calling it all off, but you stay close to that edge. Inching and bearing. Then the whole mess is over and everyone goes to clean up. The tattooer takes off his black latex gloves and the lover takes off his clear latex condom. Some ladies sleep afterwards. Some are incredibly horny.

I’d only risk assuming this because tattooed girls know about this pain. Some of them really like it, those darling masochists, and some only do it for the single end product and not the experience. I could be wrong. I’m wrong about a lot of things.

Doesn’t matter. This is how you’re meeting me, because I think this is as good of a place as any.

Historians are taught to examine patterns and trends in history, to see if the murder of Caesar was anything like the murder of Becket, the eighth-century BCE Greek Renaissance anything like the Italian one some twenty-one centuries later, give or take a few decades depending on your bias. This was all part of my pattern. So, you’re introduced to me supposing this behavior has happened before and will happen again.

I’ll save you the boredom of examining every kiss or fuck or self-destructive break up; I most definitely follow a trend. My relationship history is littered with repeat offenses. What I’m trying to do this time, however, is break the cycle.

My blush is potent. I blush when I’m only mildly embarrassed, which makes me realize I’m blushing, so I blush harder. I’m a tomato when I run or lift anything heavy. So after sex, I’m a mess. My face and chest are bright red from the exertion or the orgasm. A tomato with thick, messy auburn hair.

I usually have this look of satisfaction on my face, but after my first descent into backdoor action, I was in pain. It shot up my backside. My skin was hot and clammy, but not necessarily sweaty.

I wanted him to leave afterwards. I wanted to crawl into my bed (by myself) and take a muscle relaxer, because, after all, your sphincter is a muscle, right? It makes sense. But I wanted him out. For as beautiful as he was, I wanted him gone. After sex is a time for cigarettes and reflection on how fun/awful it was. By myself.

Besides, I didn’t want any guy around for my tomato face or my clammy skin or my smoking, even if he smoked. I was always a mess, not even the hot kind, just a mess. No one should have to see me like that. If a guy does, he’ll leave me.

You’re meeting me after I’ve had butt sex for the first time. I’ll set the scene: At this point, I’ve crawled into my sheets desperately, in the fetal position like I’ll be safe from his judgment about the weird train wreck that I am.

It smelled like sex and latex, but not as bad as anything you might be imagining. He was cleaning himself off in the bathroom. I heard the water running. I was worn. It was nearly dawn on a Wednesday. As bad as I wanted to sleep, I’m too passive to kick anyone out, so he came back to bed and tried cuddling beside me. Feeling strange and vulnerable still, I rolled over so he doesn’t have to see my face. He was breathing on the small of my neck. Go away, I wanted to tell him. My mouth opened, but the words were stuck in my throat. I lay there, cold and flushed at the same time, wondering if anyone else was like me.

“Are you alright?” He asked. He was genuinely concerned.

I nodded weakly.

Again, he tried nuzzling against me. He’s actually quite cold, so him cuddling at all was strange. You could liken it to a puppy trying to be cute to get back on master’s good side, except he didn’t do anything wrong. I wanted him to try it as much as anything, but my pride and my insecurities are making my insides curl and I feel sick. I thought I was bleeding. I skulked to the bathroom, glad to be away from his touch, and stayed in there long enough for him to pass out.

At least, I thought, I can sleep on the opposite side.

Although I craved sleep, I was too anxious. Since I’m meeting you, you should know that the beautiful, slender guy sleeping beside me isn’t my boyfriend. I know, I know, I’m a classy dame.

There’s really no excuse for cheating in twenty-first century American society. I’m not married to some old lord. I haven’t fallen for someone I can’t marry because of prejudice. As a young, Western woman, I pretty much have free reign to fall for anyone I please. There’s really no excuse for cheating.

I think I was just doing it because I had decided to throw away my relationship.

For a little less than a year, I’d been dating a gorgeous, bearded photojournalism major named Joseph. You’ll meet him in a few days. It won’t be good. You’ll probably think badly of him (and worse of me), so I’ll tell you now that he was quite the gent when we first met. We climbed trees, ate ice cream in the park, kissed in the rain. He played me music and I showed him my poetry. He took pictures. We never argued about anything except the cultural relevance of folk music or whether Jack or Maker’s Mark was better. We traveled to Chicago like honeymooners. I never doubted his affection. I was vivacious.

Everything was easy with him, which is why I decided to destroy it.

Plus, I thought he was cheating on me with his ex-girlfriend; bare minimum, he made her a priority over me one hundred percent of the time. She needed help moving? He left early. She was sad about something? He talked to her for hours, leaving me naked and horny and alone.

This is me trying to earn your empathy. Or at least your pity.

What will happen next is routine: we’ll break up, but I’ll already have someone affectionate waiting for me to use to get over him, I’ll fall hard for the new guy, he’ll either hurt me or devote himself to me, I’ll get scared, I’ll self-destruct.

Easier than almost any Stat formula you’ve ever learned. Rinse and repeat.

You’re meeting me here, while I’m naked in all ways, because maybe you’re interested in how I broke this cycle. Or maybe so you can learn from my mistakes (believe me, it’s better to live vicariously through someone who has had Chlamydia than get it yourself.). Regardless of your reasons, I’m sure you won’t like me half the time. I might not earn your respect or your compassion. I might not fulfill my twenty-first century self-indulgent troubadour role. I’m just giving you fair warning.

Still on board?

For the record, I’m tattooed and I only somewhat enjoy anal. I say I wouldn’t mind trying it again, but that’s the problem. You think it won’t hurt the next time, that you can take it because you have before or because you have tougher skin. You’ve learned. That’s what you tell yourself. That’s what I always tell myself at least.

See what I’m saying about patterns?