Why I Can't Respond to This Week's FFF Prompt

Here's this week's FFF photo prompt.

Unfortunately, I cannot participate this week by writing a couple hundred words of fiction about it.

I have a very good reason, though.

I fully expected to write something until I saw the photo prompt of the naked woman sitting on gravel.  I wasn't put off by the flippers, although that is pretty fucking weird, or the binoculars or the vehicle or the county road or how freakishly skinny she is.

It was the gravel. First, sitting on gravel naked hurts.  Yes, I have firsthand knowledge of this. For those of you who don't, remember how it feels walking on gravel in bare feet. Now imagine that feeling on your butt, thighs, and maybe even  your tender woohoo.  Ouch!  It's even more painful to be laying naked on your back on a gravel riverbank with your legs wrapped around a guy while he fucks you long and hard. Imagine bits of gravel embedded into your back and ass with a few pieces finding their way further up your ass than anyone intended.

You avoid saying anything during the act because you don't want to ruin his fun, but you lose it when afterwards he asks, "Was that really great for you, too, Baby? It was awesome for me."  You want to yell, "Who the fuck are you?!?" but you realize it's a bit late for introductions, so you just start crying and whimper, "Help me." You're trying to sit up by yourself, but lifting up your back presses your hips deeper into the gravel. Rolling onto your side just exposes more tender skin to the gravel.

He finally helps you up and looks at your back. "Holy shit," he yells. "Why didn't you tell me??"  You sniffle, wipe your nose with your arm, and say, "You were having such a good time and I didn't want to bother you." The second that comes out of your mouth, you realize what an idiot you are, first for not saying anything at the time and then for saying anything now.

He starts picking the rocks out of your skin, starting with your butt and lower back so you can sit in the car while he does the rest. Some of them can be brushed off easily; some need to be picked out by his fingernails; several are embedded so deep that he pulls out his pocket knife to pry them out.

"We should get you to the clinic," he says, but you object loudly, "No!" because you're 17 and you really need to make sure your mother knows nothing about this. You remind him that he's 22 and it makes sense for both of you to just handle this yourselves.  He agrees, and gets back to work.

It takes about 30 minutes to remove all of the rocks, and what you thought was just a little blood at first turns out to be enough blood to soak his t-shirt. You finally agree to go to the clinic.

It all becomes more embarrassing at the clinic when the doctor takes one look at you and says casually, "It looks like you've been down at the river today." You think, oh my god, he knows what we were doing, but it quickly becomes clear that he doesn't really care and you find strange comfort in the fact that other girls have gone through the same thing.

You lay there naked for an hour while the doctor inspects every scratch and hole, pulling out little shards that the guy you're never going to fuck again missed. He cleans all the wounds. He throws 2-3 stitches into five of the holes that are too big to just close on their own. He carefully puts some antibiotic ointment all over your back and decides against bandaging the larger wounds because the tape would keep the surrounding smaller and medium sized ones from healing as fast. He offers some pain medication which you eagerly take because, duh, why not? Then after getting a prescription for more antibiotic cream, you finally get out of there.

Your former fuck buddy offers to give you a ride home, but you politely decline and catch a bus home after picking up your things at his place. Home is 500 miles away and your mother thinks you're spending a week with some friends. His car would have been more comfortable than the bus, but you don't care. On the bus, you lean forward the whole way home because it hurts to lean back.

When you get home, you realize you have to tell somebody because you can't put the antibiotic cream on by yourself, so you ask your brother to help. Horrified as he sees your back for the first time, he asks how it happened.  You simply say "gravel."  It takes him about 10 seconds, but then he starts laughing and taunting you. "Maybe you should have been on top." "I don't think this what they mean when they say, 'Don't come aknockin' if the trailer's ROCKin'." "Do you really like this guy?  Do you think he'll give you a big ROCK or a ring with lots of little ROCKS?"

Mercifully, it doesn't take him long to finish the medicine task. It takes weeks for your back to fully heal and he dutifully helps you every day.  Because you can't bear the idea of suffering the humiliation of one more person knowing about it, you refuse to go to a doctor to have the stitches removed and you talk your brother into doing it instead. He agrees, of course, because he thinks pulling out stitches is pretty cool.

Fortunately, your mother never finds out and everything heals well without infection. The long distance guy eventually quits calling when you refuse to talk to him. You think you can finally leave it behind you. Except for one thing.

The gravel. You have a sick pit in your stomach now whenever you see gravel.  Any type of gravel, anywhere. This traumatic response still affects you over 30 years later.

That's why I can't write about this week's FFF prompt of the naked woman sitting on gravel.


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