[EPILOGUE OPTION TWO: FIGHT IT]

   


 

    The weeks following that night are kind of a blur. I think I tried nearly every position two people can have sex in–and three, and, yes, four. Sometimes I didn’t even know how many. I stopped showing up to classes–nearly failed, even. I got blackout drunk more than I care to remember, ended up with tattoos and piercings I couldn’t explain.  But I couldn’t get that voice out of my head: Daryl, mocking me, teasing me about the cocks I took in every orifice. Eventually, I decided enough was enough. 

I bought two wardrobes: One full of proper, respectfully modest clothes for everyday use and one full of the slutties rags I could find. I attended classes, almost always with a vibrator in me, usually giving the remote to a fellow student. I started six different dating app profiles with fake names, each demanding quick, passionate sex, so I could get laid twice every night of the week, minimum. I even started studying, usually in the library so I could get railed in the bathroom whenever I needed. And, sure enough, my grades started to rise. I graduated, nowhere near the top of my class, but passing, with a degree in nuclear engineering and a minor in microbiology, so you could say that Daryl had almost no impact on my life in the end. But on nights like these, when I’m getting dolled up in neon fishnets and heavy eyeliner instead of studying for my doctorate, putting on a mask so no one recognizes my shame, and heading out to get absolutely railed by a stranger I know nothing about save the length of their cock, I can’t help but wonder if I could have been more. 


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