Fallout: Part III of The Journal Series

Chapter Ten: It's Real

August, 1997.

Another shitty morning. Another hangover, a pounding, unrelenting hammering in my head. Another swig of scotch for my morning refreshment; bourbon just wasn't cuttin' it.

Something was the same, yet different. There was someone with me, facing away, bundled in the blankets.

I reached over, scooting closer, my arm instinctively draping over their side, the prospect of imminent comfort making me smile.

That...that wasn't Duff, though. My hand fell right on a tit, not the familiar, toned chest I was accustomed to.

I opened my eyes, squinting at the person in question, scowling at the back of their head.

Another blonde. Another fucking chick I scarcely remember picking up.

Of course.

I threw the covers off, sitting up in bed as quickly as my throbbing cranium would allow, a sense of disgust and loathing eating my stomach.

This kept happening. For a couple months now there were strangers in my bed and I kept waking up to unfamiliar bodies, disappointed they weren't the one I was dying for. 

They were all too soft. They all smelled strange. Too flowery, too fucking strong. Their pussies were only wet for my fame. They were too goddamn shrill, yelling and fucking screaming, faking orgasm when I knew goddamn good and well I was doing a shit job, not even putting in a half-assed effort. 

They were there for me, not me for them; I didn't give two shits if they enjoyed themselves so long as I forgot my misery for a few minutes. There was no real connection, no real attraction other than physical. Just somewhere to shove my dick. Just turn around, bend over, and let me fucking get off. Don't fucking kiss me, don't fuckin' sweet talk me, and if you get anywhere near my fuckin' ass it's fucking over.

Their whorish sounds and actions irked me to no end, and I always ended up comparing them.

Skin's too soft. She's so fucking loud. God, shut the fuck up. Have you ever even sucked a dick before? The fuck are you doing?

Ugh, Duff would never sound like that. Even when he's loud he's still got this soft, gentle edge to his moans. He knows how to touch me...this bitch can't even jerk me off right.

Then the fantasies would start. I could close my eyes and ignore them, let my mind wander to help get me off so long as they didn't scrape me too hard with their teeth. It was easier to imagine the juices dripping down my balls and the creases of my thighs as they rode me were spawned from a blow job by him instead of the wandering fame slut I'd picked up.

And they were easy. They were all so easy.