The headache came on a little after lunch. It was Wednesday, four days after my ex walked out of my life and into the arms of his fat-tittied cow, and it was also my first day back at work. I'd called in sick on Monday and Tuesday, but I hadn't been sick. I'd been binging on tequila, trying to drown my grief, guilt, and nearly ever-present anxiety. But it hadn't worked, especially not after I'd sucked and fucked a greasy liquor store clerk for three bottles of tequila because I'd forgotten my fake ID.
Of course, if I was honest with myself, the fake ID wasn't the real reason I'd done it. I could've walked the two blocks back home and gotten it. I'd wanted to fuck the creep. Not at first, though. Forgetting my fake ID was an accident, but the situation had given me an opportunity to reassert to myself who and what I was.
I wasn't the 'normal' girl my ex thought he saw in me. I was a slut, nothing more, and deserved to be treated like one. Except I hadn't been a slut with the clerk. I'd been a whore, plain and simple, with tequila as my payment. At least two of the bottles he'd given me had been top-shelf shit, not the no-name brand I usually bought. And after he left, I drank enough of that good stuff to drown the brain bugs. It was also enough for me to pass out and not wake until Tuesday afternoon.
I'd known as soon as I stumbled out of bed, head pounding, mouth parched, muscles aching, that I was dehydrated. I forced myself to drink a bottle of water instead of the half-full, and still open, bottle of tequila on my kitchen table. But my stomach rebelled, and I made it to my bathroom just in time to puke all over the floor, adding to a pool of vomit already there. I had no memory of throwing up the night before or that morning, but evidently, I hadn't made it to the toilet then either.
I remained sitting on my bathroom floor, the tile cold against my naked ass and legs, and waited for the stomach cramps to pass. After a few seconds, the smell of the vomit was too much, and I wretched again, although nothing but a few drops of foul tasting bile actually came up.
You need more tequila,
a growing mob of millipedes in my brain suggested, but I did my best to ignore them since I knew they were wrong. I wanted more tequila. I needed water.
Forcing myself to stand, I grabbed the still slightly damp towel I had used after showering the night before and spread it over the vomit. That cut down on the odor, as well as putting the disgusting mess out of my sight. Following a quick shower, I returned to the kitchen and got another bottle of water. This one I sipped, careful not to drink too much too fast. The cramps in my stomach returned after the first couple of swallows, but not nearly as bad. Encouraged, I ate a slice of bread, drinking a little water between each bite. By the time I was done, the cramps were all but gone.
The millipedes in my head were a different matter. They'd multiplied, and they'd brought with them a mixture of memories of my ex and Kayden, the liquor store clerk I'd fucked for tequila. With them came two ideas of who I could be. One was the girlfriend Mark, my ex, had wanted me to be. The other was slut turned whore who'd fucked for booze. And as the warring thoughts of who I could be and who I was clashed in my brain, my headache grew. Worse, I felt panic rising and knew an attack was not far off.
My first thought was of tequila, but I fought the urge. Instead, I grabbed another bottle of water and went back to the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet, and took out my bottle of anti-anxiety medicine. Hoping that I didn't have enough alcohol still in my system for it to be a problem, I swallowed the pill and chased it with a long drink of water and waited to see what my stomach did. Luckily, after a couple of minutes of nausea, it went back to its only slightly unsettled state.
After dressing in sweats and a loose t-shirt, I called my work. I'd seen a call to my boss on my cell's call log from that morning, but I did not remember making that call. I hoped I had not said anything too bad when I'd talked to him earlier.
"Hey, Karl. It's Jessica," I said when he answered, surprised by the hoarseness of my own voice.
"Hey, Jessica. You feeling any better?"
"Yeah, I think so. I was so out of it this morning I don't really remember calling you, so I wanted to..."
"Don't worry about it. Just take it easy today and get better, okay?"
"I'll try."
"Ok. See you tomorrow."
I ended the call, feeling guilty for the sympathy from my boss. He truly believed I was sick, but I was really just a stupid, hungover bitch. At least, that was the thought that I couldn't get out of my head just then. Sitting on my bed, I buried my face in my hands and cried until the medicine kicked in.
I hated being on my anti-anxiety pills. They did nothing to stop my bad thoughts. They just slowed it all down and made it harder to focus on any particular thought for long. They also dulled my senses, especially touch, and made me lethargic. But at least they kept me from slipping into a panic attack.
As the afternoon and then the evening wore on, I tried to distract myself by watching TV or playing games on my laptop and phone. But my headache persisted, so I went to the small gym in my apartment complex, hoping that physical activity might help that. And it did at first, until my neighbor Colton came in. I'd fucked Colton a couple of months earlier when I was mad at Mark. It'd been a mistake. Sure, it'd had the desired effect of reminding my ex I had other options, but Colton had been a terrible lay, unsure of what he was doing and unable to take any hints about what he should do. And to make it all worse, his interest in me had doubled afterward, even when I had explained to him he had no shot.
"Hey Jessica!" he said, beaming at me. "You look very pretty."
I knew I didn't, not with dark puffy eyes, frizzy hair pulled into a ponytail, and no makeup. And it kinda pissed me off that he would say I did. A few rage beetles scuttled into my brain, and I knew it was time to go.
"You leaving already?" the skinny young man asked me, his voice heavy with disappointment.
"Look, I'm never going to fuck you again, Colton. So just quit trying, okay?"
As a wide-eyed, shocked expression settled onto his otherwise bland face, I knew I should feel guilty. But I didn't. I felt angry, and the anger was something I could concentrate on, something that could pull me out of the medicine induced lethargy even better than exercise.
"I was just being nice..."
"Don't bullshit me, Colton. You want back in my pants. That's all you ever want. Well, it ain't happening, so leave me the fuck alone."
I let the door to the gym bang behind me as I stormed out. I didn't bother looking back. I was quite sure he wouldn't follow me. But he surprised me. By the time I reached my door, he had caught up.
"Jessica, wait," he said, grabbing my arm as I was about to walk into my apartment. "What's wrong?"
"What's wrong? Well, Mark dumped me for a fat cunt with big tits. And I sucked off and fucked a guy from the liquor store to get more tequila so I could drink myself into a stupor. There's vomit all over my bathroom floor, and the only thing that's keeping me from falling apart is crappy medicine and being pissed at you."
The shocked look back on his face, Colton stared at me. And that made me all the more angry. But being that pissed brought back memories of Mark, of when I would be mad at him but super fucking horny. To my surprise, I felt heat between my legs and a tingle in my pussy.
SHIT!
I screamed in my own head. I didn't want to fuck Colton. I didn't want to fuck anyone, except maybe Mark. But there I was, mad as fuck and horny, my wimp of a neighbor actually holding onto my arm with a strong enough grip to make me think maybe he actually had the balls to do something.
"Let go of me, Colton," I snarled, yanking my arm. Part of me hoped he'd hold on, that he'd take charge and give me the fucking I needed even if it wasn't what I thought I wanted. But he didn't.
Colton stepped back, his eyes downcast as he let his now empty hand fall to his side.
"Fucking pussy," I said, relishing the pain in his watery brown eyes.
Sure, I knew I'd feel bad later. I always did when I hurt somebody's feelings. But in the moment, I felt powerful. And given how I'd been feeling ever since Mark left, powerful was good.
Back in my apartment with the door closed, I stripped and lay on my bed, one hand massaging my tits and almost painfully erect nipples while my other sought out my sopping wet cunt. At first, I imagined the look on Colton's face when I called him a pussy, focusing on the anger that had brought me to such need despite the effects of my medicine. Then my thoughts shifted to Mark, of how we would fuck when I was pissed and how he always made me come.
Turning on my side, I reached to my nightstand, opened the drawer, and found my bullet vibrator. Within seconds, it was buzzing with energy as I pushed it against my clit. And after maybe a minute more, my body tensed as I came, one hand shoving the vibrator into my now quivering cunt as my other hand twisted my tit.
I rested for a bit, then repeated the process twice more. And although those orgasms weren't as intense as the first one, they were enough to leave me with a sense of satisfaction that kept my mind from turning to the thoughts I couldn't escape.
After a light dinner of water and a sandwich, I masturbated one more time, using my fingers instead of the bullet. I only came once, but it was a body shaking release after a long, slow buildup. And within a few minutes of coming, I slipped into a restful, dreamless sleep.
***
Morning light streamed into my bedroom, waking me. To my surprise, I felt refreshed and determined to go to work. I did hit a slight hiccup when I saw the towel on my bathroom floor and remembered that I'd never cleaned up the vomit. But by being careful not to step on the towel or breathe in too deeply, I was able to put that out of my mind as I got ready for the day,
When I arrived at work, Karl, my boss, came to my cubicle to make sure I was feeling okay. I assured him I was, but as we talked, I felt some guilt bugs stir in my head. I was happy when he left, as I could concentrate on my work, which is mind-numbing data entry. And that was the main reason I liked doing it. It took very little thought yet required enough concentration that I didn't think about anything else while I did it. And because of that, because it gave my mind something to focus on other than anxiety, guilt, shame, and whatever else I might be feeling, it was a great job for me.
But it was not a job I could do easily with a headache. The pain was enough to distract me from the data entry. And as it did so, thoughts I didn't want to have wiggled their way into my mind, their tiny legs churning as the multiplied into an Undulating mass of millipedes. And as the afternoon wore on, it only got worse. Finally, I went to see my boss.
