Meaning of Forsake
1. To give up (something formerly held dear)
2. To leave altogether; abandon
“For the hundredth time Annie, I am not running away! I’m just taking myself off for a little break, a change of scenery. I just need to clear the cobwebs and then I’ll be as good as new okay? ... Yeah, I know what you thought but come on, if I was running away I wouldn’t have left my car behind would I? ... See! Sometimes Annie you just worry too much! Running away?! Talk about jumping to conclusions! ... Yeah babe, I love you too and I promise to call you soon. No I promise you, I am absolutely fine. All good in the hood! Okay Annie, yeah I will, I know. Gotta go Ann. Byeee!”
Ending the call I shook my head, that girl could make a mountain out of a molehill. Everything about Annie was melodramatic and as the saner one of the two it had always been my job to tone her down. Prone to exaggeration and sometimes insane flights of fancy Annie was the light to my dark, the blonde to my brunette, the thin to my... well you get the point. Friends since Secondary school, she knew me better than anyone else. Which made me feel really guilty about lying to her. Under no circumstances was I in the least bit fine, I was as far from fine as it was possible to be. In fact, if fine were to take the seat opposite me on the train and hug me like a long lost relative I would still have no clue what it was. So no, I was not fine. And I sure as hell was running away.
I know it probably seems a bit extreme, catching your live-in boyfriend of 3 years in bed with another woman should result in a lot of screaming, tears and broken crockery, not a one way train ticket to Edinburgh clutching your meagre possessions in a rucksack and a big blue Ikea bag. And I’m fairly sure that in times of angst you’re meant to run away from home, not back to it. But there you go. Less than 24 hours ago I walked in on the man I loved getting ridden hard by a skinny flexible blonde, basically the antithesis of me. I’d watched in some sort of zombie trance as she bounced up and down on his cock as if it was some kind of flesh covered pogo stick, unable to make a sound, move or take a breath. I’d watched as Richard’s face got redder and his features twisted as the blonde brought him closer to orgasm.
Even now, sitting on the train rushing out of London, the suburban greyness slowly fading away, I can still see her tiny frame pumping up and down whilst her pneumatic tits just sat there, as unmovable as my feet had been. Richard started to make the tell tale noises that he was close to coming and the blonde climbed off of him, signifying that this wasn’t the first time they’d done this. Kneeling back between his thighs she took his cock into her mouth and as he bucked his climax into her pouty red lips I was struck by two things. Firstly that in all of our years together, Richard had never come with that level of intensity and that his semen was probably the only thing the blonde had eaten in a while. Stuck between wanting to laugh and sob, I stood and watched as the blonde slowly crawled up Richard’s prone body and draped herself over him. They kissed and Richard wrapped his arms around her tanned toned flesh, running his hands over the firm flesh of her flat ass. The tears were welling in my eyes but I still couldn’t find the strength to move, their naked tableau now looking more like an impressionist than a portrait.
A million thoughts had started forming in my brain. Who was she? How long had it been going on? Did he love her? Could I get past it? Did I want to? The tears fell and my vision cleared, the lovers were still entwined and Richard was now stroking leisurely between her legs as she arched into his touch. Richard was incredibly good with his hands and for a second I felt a rush of wetness as I remembered the sensations he could draw from my body. Then he slowly kissed his way down her body and began lavishing her with a totally different kind of kiss. Blinking, I had stood there as my boyfriend went down on the blonde with an enthusiasm usually reserved for my Sunday roasts. Richard hadn’t gone down on me for years, he always said he didn’t like doing it and I’d never really pushed the issue. Watching him now, I felt the sickness recede and anger start to bubble away. I know right, watching him screw some random woman in our bed was okay but watching him lick her pussy like a Cornetto was the thing that really pissed me off. Rationality is not my middle name. He was obviously even better with his tongue than he was with hands because the blonde was now spasming and moaning in delight, her tiny hands clutching his hair in blind pleasure. I literally couldn’t walk away and as the vomit started rising in my throat I had a sudden irrational fear of Richard shouting at me for throwing up on the bedroom carpet! And then it happened, the blonde came with a keening cry and I managed to swallow the mouthful of vomit which had crept up my oesophagus. Richard was still nestled between her thighs and it took me a second to register that he was talking to her.
“... So beautiful. I love watching you come baby, you’re so perfect and the way you make those noises gets me so hard. No one has ever made me feel as good as you do, and no one ever could. You are just the most beautiful woman I have ever held in my arms and I just can’t get enough of you. I just want to carry you with me all the time.”
She cooed something at him that I couldn’t hear and they giggled like a pair of naughty children,
“Yeah baby. I’ll carry you everywhere naked and wrapped around my cock. You’re as light as a feather and as hot as a volcano and I think I’m ready to eat you all over again.”
Richard went in for seconds, his cock now hard as iron and rubbing against the end of the bed. Rage dissipated into sadness and as the blonde came with a bang, I crept out with a whimper.
Sitting here, watching the green fields whizzing past me as I leave Richard and the blonde behind me I still can’t quite believe that it was real. That he could cheat on me like that, in our flat, on our bed. That I could just stand there watching and not say a word. What kind of a woman does that? But I know that it did happen and I know why I didn’t fly into a rage of plate throwing proportions. In my heart I’ve always known that I was batting above my (considerable) weight. Richard isn’t exactly an Adonis but he’s at least a 7, while I am only a 4 on my very best days.