Chapter 07
Moose Jaw
To this day, I don't remember much more from that Saturday night at the Funraiser. I know I drank more. A lot more. The hazy, disjointed memories of people holding bottles to my lips as I lay on my back with my legs spread are among the few that I do still possess. That and the lines of hard cocks that Mrs. Success and I brought to squirting orgasm while sucking side by side on the couch.
I don't even remember how I got back home, or what time it was, only half waking several times in my own bed, hungover and sick with no recollection at all of the night before apart from the fact that I'd obviously gotten really drunk.
When I did fully wake up after having slept off just enough alcohol that some memories could begin leaking back into my mind, I stayed awake, squirming and playing with myself, masturbating to what I could remember with an astounded exhilaration until I fell asleep again.
The next time I woke up, things were different. It was almost four-thirty in the afternoon, and I didn't have near enough alcohol left in my system to create that astounded exhilaration. I rolled around in my bed, crying and moaning out loud while covering my head with my pillow. This was worse than any personal shame I'd ever felt, one hundred times worse, a thousand times worse. I could barely stand it, the knowledge of exactly why my pussy was so sore, the humiliation, the overwhelming shame and, for the very first time in my life, I considered suicide.
My head was still pounding, my gut aching and, when I got up to run for
Tylenol
and whatever was left of the vodka, I ended up making a quick detour to the bathroom so I could, as they say, puke my guts out.
After some minutes of slumping naked over the toilet with the dry heaves, I managed to get to the kitchenette, downing three
Tylenol
and grabbing the Vodka from the fridge. I estimated enough for one weak drink, but I was all out of orange juice. Grabbing the carton of milk, I used that, getting just enough out of it for some kind of mix, but not enough to keep me from gagging. I somehow managed not to vomit the precious elixir of inner peace back up, taking it slow even though I wanted to down it. I needed the insulation against my feelings that only it could provide so badly that I couldn't even stop myself from crying.
I was finally able to finish it, setting the glass down on the counter with trembling hands. Going back to the bathroom, I washed my face without looking at myself in the mirror. I didn't think I could stand to do that just then. Sitting on my bed afterward, rocking back and forth while moaning my misery into a bath towel, I waited only just long enough for the vodka to hit me a little.
When it finally did, I threw on a pair of work jeans and one of my Salvation Army polo tops without bra, or panties. As horrifying as the thought of going out and facing people was, I had to do it. Without even socks on my feet, I hurriedly put my sneakers on, grabbed my purse and hurried downstairs and out the front door where I was immensely glad to find my car waiting at the curb. Apparently, somebody was at least nice enough to drive me home in it the night before, but I went through a minute of wild anxiety until I found the keys in my purse. Accidently catching a glimpse of myself in the rear view mirror, I noticed my hair was in such total disarray, it looked as though rats had been nesting in it, but that wasn't what startled me.
My eyes, apart from being bloodshot red, were so bright they seemed to almost shine with a sparkling quality like Donna's did. I stared for a moment, blinking at them as they stared back until I could no longer stomach the sight of myself. Quickly fixing my hair as best as I could without looking back to the accusing mirror, I grabbed my shades from the top of the sun visor and started the car.
Less than one half hour later, I was back in my upstairs apartment, making a beeline for my kitchenette with the biggest bottle of
Smirnoff
vodka that the liquor store sold and three large jugs of Orange juice with pulp. I couldn't get the first one into me fast enough, having mixed it weak enough so that I could bolt it before mixing another stronger one to take with me to the sectional. Cuddling up in the corner, I hugged my legs in the hot, non-air conditioned apartment, moaning, trembling and crying while I rocked myself. The sweat that had broken out all over my body had nothing to do with the heat, rather the toxins that my body was working to get rid of even as I was adding more.
A half hour later, I was able to stop moaning and rocking, though my body still trembled as I got up to mix another screwdriver to continue fixing myself with. I took that one to the bathtub, washing from my body the night before and all the sticky stuff that came back to my apartment with me. I stayed in there for quite a while too, long enough to stop crying while I kept drinking. By the time I was out and towelled off, I felt better about things, making my way back to the kitchenette for something to eat so I could maybe stop the trembling.
After two fried egg sandwiches, I put my Salvation Army polo top back on, mixed another drink and somehow forgot to put my jeans back on when I went for my laptop. A little porn was what I needed to finish getting my mind off things. Opening another of my faves, (Supergirl Forced), I took the first sip of a fresh drink and allowed my fingers to start playing in my pubic bush while I forced myself to sit through the whole first part of the video, where Supergirl is tied to a chair, the front of her white panties showing up her short skirt.
Monday morning didn't come quite as bright and early as it should have. I didn't even recognize Donna at first, wasn't even able to compute why or how she could be there, wherever 'there' was, looking down at me with her brow furrowed, a frown on her gorgeous face.
"Tara?"
" ... Du- Du-duuuh..." I croaked before rolling over to face the back of the sectional.
It was an attempt to hide my again badly hungover face from the sunlight coming in through the front windows of my apartment's living room. I had the very worst pounding headache of my life and my intestines felt as though they were in flames.
"Wh...? What the fuck happened to you?" she demanded, her voice insanely loud in the otherwise quiet stillness of my apartment.
"Gu-uhhhh..." I moaned, the feelings that I'd been running from the day before beginning their merciless return along with my awareness of where I was and why my assistant was there.
"Have you been drinking?"
I didn't reply.
"Tara!"
"Goway!"
"No, I'm
not
going away, I wanna know what the fuck's been happening!"
That's when I started sobbing uncontrollably.
She turned me over again and, totally incoherent and distraught, I tried to resist, to get her to just leave me alone, to stop looking at me and just leave me to myself, but she wouldn't. With a strength that surprised me, Donna forced me to a seated position on the sectional, bending at the waist so she could look me in the face, the very last thing my shame and self-loathing wanted.
"Tara, look at me!"
I could only sob, trying to look away in reply as my condition escalated until, gripping me by the shoulders, she gave me a rough shake, her tone becoming harsh.
"Tara!
I said
look
at me!"
Somewhat distracted from my developing, full on panic attack, I did as she commanded, though more out of surprise than anything. It didn't matter why though. As soon as I did, as soon as I looked into her brilliant, sparkling depths of gold and green, my mind was taken from the track it was on, distracted by a subtly expanding darkness just beyond the brilliant colours until she spoke again, clearly and pointedly.
"Calm - down."
And I did to a degree. My mind slowed, the panic that was so quickly rising from within sinking as I found such temptation to simply wallow in her wonderful, loving eyes. Shaking all over, I found solace in the undeniable knowledge that Donna really loved me. She was all I really had and she was there for me.
After a strangely immeasurable time, she said, "Now, stay here and stay calm. I'll be right back."
The sudden absence of her face, those eyes of such depth and caring, came as a shock, like someone ripping a band aid off, but I knew it was important that I follow her instructions. Somehow mostly maintaining my calm, I sat there, whimpering and blinking in the unforgiving light of day. It seemed like an eternity, all alone with the man who was hammering at the insides of my skull with the sledgehammer until she returned, mercifully closing the blinds before approaching me with a glass of orange juice and a sympathetic expression
"D-Dunuu..." I managed.
"What is it, sweetie pie?" she asked as she settled beside me.
"Thik I'm gonna p-puke..."
In a quick, smooth movement that one would more expect from a cat than a human, she put the orange juice and three
Tylenol
down on the coffee table before grabbing me and heisting me to my feet for a rushed trip to the bathroom. I barely made it, violently disgorging the toxic contents of my stomach until it felt like it was turning itself inside out. The whole time, Donna was there, right behind me, holding my body up on its knees and my hair back as I reacquainted myself with the dry heaves.
When it was finally over, when we were both reasonably sure that my digestive system had completely purged itself, she easily helped me to my feet, guiding the crying, moaning mess that was me back to the living room. Once more sitting on my sectional, she personally popped the three Tylenol into my mouth before holding the glass of orange juice to my lips with a terse instruction to drink.
It wasn't just orange juice.
A half hour later, I was more coherent, my emotional landscape more stable as I sat there in nothing but my Salvation Army polo top, staring dully at the closed blinds while tears ran down my cheeks. My head still pounded, but it was getting better and my guts were settled to where I was sure I wasn't going to puke up the hair of the dog that Donna had mercifully administered. But I was far from okay. Up to that point, I'd had to refuse, adamantly avoid the place where my mind wanted to go, the memories I'd been avoiding all Sunday, and I wondered if I'd ever be really okay again.
In her tight, black designer jeans and satiny gold, supportive camisole top, Donna had been sitting beside me, patiently waiting for my partial recovery. Her nipples, clearly erect behind the thin, moderately low cut garment had actually played a part in my fragile recovery. They were a very pleasant distraction while at the same time encouraging the rational thoughts of how I should eventually have a talk with her about the necessity of wearing a bra to work.
"So," she began in a soft, soothing voice," why don't you tell me what happened?"
"Can't," I said simply in a small, defeated tone.
"Why not," she asked softly, comfortingly stroking my upper arm.
"(Sniff!)
Can't think about it."
"I understand, but you have to let it out."
