Clara threw up for what seemed like the thousandth time. Her guts clenching, surging up her throat, beads of sweat popping on her forehead.

She’d always laughed herself silly at the Family Guy episode where the characters all take ipecac to see who gets the last piece of cherry pie.

Fucking hilarious, that episode.

She doesn’t think it’s all that funny anymore.

Not.

One.

Goddamn.

Bit.

“Come on, darling, give it up already. I don’t want to have to give you an enema.”

Urariah.

Asshole.

Clara had spent what seemed like a couple of lifetimes dating nothing but assholes:

Steve was a tweaker who slept only once the entire six month they were together.

Mike was an abusive drunk.

Derek was sexually abused as a child, so sex was something dirty. But, thankfully, oh so gentle and loving when it did happen.

Paul was gay, but pretended not to be. They had wonderful conversations and he was an excellent chef, but screwing meant she was behind him working his sphincter over with a strap-on.

Neal was a panty waste who was completely incapable of making a decision for himself and needed her to hold his hand from brushing his teeth-to-which route he should take to work.

Urariah, though, he was a step above all of them. He was funny, gentle, kind, handsome—and he had a job (joblessness was another trait most of her boyfriends shared).

Police.

Not exactly conducive to her overall lifestyle, not at all.

Clara was the first to admit she wasn’t always the best girlfriend.

She liked to party.

She liked the bars.

She liked drinking all night and dancing.

She liked bumps of coke and the occasional line of speed to keep her going, moving.

She’d lived this way for years.

She’d lived this way so long and had done so many things that if she didn’t bury them so deep she would wake up every night shaking and in tears, never able to leave her apartment out of shame. When she met Urariah—on a night she was railed to the heavens with eight margaritas sloshing around in her belly—he  pulled her off the dance floor, out of the club, and into the booth of an all night greasy spoon, listening to her rattle on about her work gripes, her boyfriend troubles, her complicated relationship with her parents. He just let her talk, never interrupting her, never breaking eye contact.

By the time the sun came up, she was convinced they were soul mates and begged him to come up to her apartment when he dropped her off, but did nothing but kiss her deeply and tell her that he’d call her tomorrow.

She was a bit disappointed because she didn’t remember giving him her phone number. But he called. He called when he said he would. He asked her out on a proper date. Picked her promptly up at 7 PM on a Friday night. They had dinner at a restaurant with a dress code and the average plate cost $25. Urariah paid. He paid for the movie they went to after. He paid for the drinks after the movie. He still didn’t try to fuck her when he dropped her off.

They didn’t fuck until two weeks into their relationship. He was gentle and shy at first, but he was hard. But not kinky hard, just hard enough to get her off.

Her beloved Urariah. He seemed so damn perfect.

Until tonight.

Tonight, he said he had to stop at a friend’s house before dinner. A quick stop, 15-minutes tops.

Clara said sure. She said it with a beaming smile. A smile of total devotion.

They pulled up in front of a townhouse. They went up to the front door, rang the bell. Waited, rang again. Urariah shrugged and said: “They said they’d be here, let me see if they left a key.”

They key was a rock that he put through the stained glass window. He reached in and unlocked the door. He said: “No, really, they won’t mind.”

They rushed inside.

They found themselves in the kitchen and in front of a pile of condoms. There were thirty or forty  of them, all of them filled with some kind of powder. She didn’t want to think about what the powder was. Urariah said: “Babe, would you mind?”

Babe would you mind meant would she mind swallowing some of the condoms.

Okay, no point in sugar coating it: Swallowing all of them.

She’d gulped down at least twenty of them. It was easy, just like deep throating, a skill she mastered in her sophomore year. She was going for twenty-one when she heard the explosion and felt what was left of Urariah splash across her back and neck.

Urariah’s “friend” had come home.

He tried sticking his finger down her throat first. She didn’t resist, but it was a no go. Then he fed her the ipecac and within ten minutes she was letting it fly all over Urariah’s friend’s kitchen.

She vomited again.

1001.

Finally a condom made it out with the bile.

“That a girl! Keep ‘em coming!”

She stared up at him and noticed for the first time that he was kind of cute.

Maybe after this was all said and done, and if he didn’t kill her, they could hit the clubs?

Maybe it was time to start dating assholes again?