You’re drunk again and the room smells of mildew. The blanket on the bed is brown and itchy, probably dirty too. This doesn’t stop me though, from stretching out my hand and touching the back of your neck. 

“Fuck off, Steve,” the words come out all garbled and you sound like the nothing you are.

I don't move my hand. Instead, it drifts into your hair. It looks soft, but it’s really greasy and it smells like skin, and winter, and beer. You’ve been drinking a lot more, since this whole thing started. 

I get lost in the texture of your once-short kittenish hair and the feel of the thick blanket. I don't know how we ended up like this and I don't know how my hand got under your waistband. It’s four in the morning but it’s bright out, Alaska can be like that. You don't try to stop me, and I know you want this more than I do. So stupid.

“What are you doing?” you still sound like you're asleep, maybe even a little heartbroken. I don't answer you; I don't need to; not really any way. 

The room feels smaller, and I realize that no matter what we put in front of the window, it will never be dark enough. Not for this any way. You’re hard, and I'm drunk too. In fact, as far as tomorrow is concerned, I wasn’t thinking straight. My hand is getting slick with spunk and it doesn’t matter. I stroke harder and I watch as your back tenses. Come on, come on, you can do it, I'm goading you on silently now, and I wouldn’t dare actually open my mouth. I'm pulling at you almost violently now; all I want is for you to shoot your load and for this to be over. 

You come with a grunt and my hand retreats. I wipe the stickiness off on the already dirty blanket. Don’t matter. “Thanks,” you say. 

And my stomach churns.