Chapter 2: Harley

“What. The. Actual. Fuck?”

Those were the only words that my brain could formulate at that moment.

Let me give you some backstory so you can understand my surprise, nay shock, at what I came upon in that room.

Steven and I’s sex life has always been mediocre. He never wanted to use toys in the bedroom. The only positions he knew were missionary and me giving him a blowjob. Is that even a position? I digress.

He went down on me once. Afterward, he told me he didn’t know what the big deal was about giving oral sex to a woman because it didn’t give him any pleasure. Well, duh, dickwad, that’s the whole point.

Giving oral to a woman should be something the guy enjoys. He should do it because he wants to, not because he has to. All just in the hope of her returning the favor. Chivalry is most definitely a lost art.

For the past eight months of our relationship, I’ve begged him to try different positions and interesting toys. Once, I even showed up at his apartment with only lingerie underneath a raincoat to spice things up. I was shot down quicker than a convicted criminal in front of a firing squad. What an ego boost that was.

So, to see him on top of Kylie in a sixty-nine position was surprising. But what was even more shocking was the fact that she was fucking his ass with a dildo that could compete with a soda can in width. Not to mention the studded dog collar around his neck. I did like the red bunny ears he was sporting, though.

The four words of surprise that I breathed caught their attention. They froze instantly, their eyes growing to the size of dinner plates. When the green dildo in Steven’s ass suddenly popped out due to Kylie having dropped her hand in surprise, and it smacked her on the forehead, I lost it.

I almost pissed myself in hysterics, wrapping my arms around my stomach. Tears started leaking from my eyes, making my vision blurry. But not blurry enough not to see the cock cage fastened around Steven’s flaccid dick when he got up from the bed.

“Harley, baby...” he started saying, but I held up my hand to halt the pathetic excuses or gaslighting attempts that would most certainly begin pissing from his mouth.

“Whatever this is,” I said as I waved my finger in a circular motion in their direction, “I hope it was worth the end of our relationship.”

Strolling over to the closet, I took out the pair of shoes I originally came for (they were freaking expensive, mind you) and then left without saying another word. The other few things of mine at Steven’s place were inconsequential – a toothbrush, a coffee mug he gave me, a framed photo of us in front of the fireplace at my house.

They were both still mumbling and sputtering behind me as I was walking out of the room, but I was done with their bullshit. I threw his key onto his kitchen counter and strolled out the front door. As the door slammed shut behind me, I heard Steven begging, “Harley, please, don’t leave me.” That’ll be a hard no from me, dipshit.

I had left his building and unthinkingly turned left, not knowing where I was going. It just needed to be far away from him.

After about 30 minutes of mindless wandering, a couple of girls strolling a few feet ahead of me entered a hotel and into this bar. I followed, them being none the wiser that they were aiding me to celebrate my newfound freedom and emancipation from Steven Douche Canoe Stevens. Who calls their kid by the same name as their surname? Heathens, that’s who.

That was about two hours ago, and the alcohol at last started doing its job, numbing the anger and shame that lay heavily in my chest.

In hindsight, I don’t think I truly loved Steven. I might have liked him at a certain point, but I’ve just been going through the motions the last few months. I was comfortable and didn’t want to rock the boat. I didn’t want to nag or expect too much from him. Mostly, I think, because I didn’t want to be alone anymore.

That’s where the shame comes in. Because I always said I wanted a man who would worship the ground I walked on and do almost anything to keep me for himself. Because I experienced such a relationship when my parents were still alive. And I wanted it for myself. Not just because I’m a selfish bitch, but because I wanted to be that person to someone else in return.

At the start of our relationship, when everything was shiny and new, he treated me well. He complimented me, was a gentleman who opened doors for me, and he spoke to me like an equal. But as time passed, he had become complacent. There were no more surprise flower deliveries at the bookstore or spontaneous late-night walks in the park while we discussed our day. Sex became a chore when he scheduled it for every Wednesday and Saturday evening if we didn’t have any work responsibilities.

And that is why I’m more miffed at myself than him –I let all that shit happen even after I promised myself that I wouldn’t become a statistic when it came to failed relationships.

Is it too late to become a nun and live a life of celibacy? Let’s table that idea for when I’m sober.

Done with my pity party, I raise my hand to call the bartender over. “I want to close my tab, please,” I say when he’s within earshot.

“I’ll call you a cab while I’m at it.”

“No need; I live a couple of blocks down and will be walking home. So, you don’t have to worry about anyone being run over by me on the way home,” I say, giving him an angelic smile. Or at least, I hope it does. Or do I look more like a deranged animal that has been infected with rabies?

The smile must work because he hands me my keys and bill. Not really looking at the total, I scribble down a total that includes his promised 50-dollar tip. Once he’s entered what’s needed for the transaction to be authorized, I tap my card on his card machine, ready to get out of dodge.

He walks off, dismissing me as I slip from my barstool, only to realize that gravity is not my friend right now. That bitch!

Taking it slowly, I carefully walk out of the bar, through the hotel’s lobby, and onto the street, where the cool night air clears my head somewhat.

The walk home is quiet, with only a few people passing me. Weird. Shouldn’t more people be out and about on a Friday night?

About a block from my house, I pass by a darkened alleyway and hear a faint noise. Deciding to ignore it (it’s probably a feral cat that’ll scratch my arms to shit as a thank you for helping it), I keep walking.

But then the distinct noise of someone in pain filters out onto the street from the mouth of the alley, and I stop in my tracks like a deer in headlights. It comes again, this time louder and filled with pain. Fuck me, I’m going to go and look, aren’t I?

I retrace my steps and peer around the corner down the alley. I can see someone on the ground, their back slumped against the wall, but it’s too dark, and I’m too far away to make out any distinct features.

Don’t do it, Harley. Don’t walk down this dark alley towards someone who’s most likely injured, scared, and on the defensive. Someone who could probably be armed. Someone whose attacker could still be lurking in the shadows.