Round 3: Sweetes S.I.N. vs Synecdoche

Academic Escort

Song: Halik sa Hangin by KZ Tandingan

Team: Synecdoche

PART 1

i.

She underwent tubal ligation surgery at the age of nineteen. It wasn't easy. Not on the monetary side of things; she didn't spend a single centavo. The weight was on surviving three psychological tests, a long-due breakup with her father (her only "family" then), and five nights with Dr. Mendel. The doctor said someday she'd changed her mind and curse herself, sterilizing oneself at such a young age. She'd regret it, he'd said; to which she replied, "Along with sucking your tiny sex, yes."

But of course, even after fourteen years, she hasn't. The permanent contraception granted her more freedom. A bit of internal peace as well. She only had to worry about the diseases, not an unwanted formation of a biological potential of a life in her womb— the plausibility of dying, not "killing." With these thoughts, each night became a little more bearable.

Just a bit.

Francis pulls at her hair, drawing her head back. She gasps ever so lightly as he roughly dips his body. He breathes into her mouth, "Three hundred," before devouring it.

She shoves his shoulders away so that they roll over to the side and reverse positions: she is now on top. Her palms slide across his bear stomach, up his chest and collarbones, his neck. "Six." Her hips wave up and down. She steers the pace— a gradual increase in speed.

He starts to jolt every now and then, visible creases on the sheets where his hands grope for help. "Four-twenty!" His voice cracks.

Her fingers tighten their clasp, her thumbs pressing down on his laryngeal prominence. "Five hundred..." she repeats, watching his face flinch, drenched in sweat, begging for mercy.

He comes.

For the sixth time tonight.

"Nothing more, nothing less... or else," she releases her grip so that he gasps for air. She kneels up, dripping all over his naked torso; "you'll never taste these pair lips ever again." She doesn't even tremble.

It takes Francis a minute to whisper, "Fine..."

She pulls him up by his hair, so that he sits over as she lies back with his face between his thighs.

"I'd do anything for these pair of lips," Francis sips from her.

She moans loudly— a façade of pleasure, trying her best to enjoy the moment.

But she can't. And she never has... with anybody. Ever.

Maybe someday she will.

When she does it with someone she loves.

ii.

Francis was gone before sunset, and she lay on the bed edging the cheque with a finger. Half a million will keep her stomach [and curiosity] filled for about three months. That's good. Maybe she'd reach a fifth of her current research by then.

She showers for two hours, as is her custom. She's never really gotten over the habit. Every time after sex, she would scrub herself multiple times, as if to rinse away the filth in her mouth and between her thighs.

Today feels a bit different, though. She lathers herself in rosemary and lime as if she was the garnish on the pasta she cooked this morning. In fact, this is the entire opposite of what she has felt all her life. She slips into her favorite little black dress and puts on her philosophy perfume, even singing a little. Tori Kelly, Justine Bieber, The Corrs— don't wanna wake up alone anymore...