she shone bright in the darkness, the subtle glare of red reflecting off the one streetlight beam peeking through the curtain. her darting eyes scanning the room and smiling in recognition.

i knelt beside the door as she approached me, dug my intestines out through my naval and stretched my heart down into my crotch. it felt fluttery and warm down there. i curled around the sensation and felt the solace radiate through my body.

her lips were full and gentle, her hands captivating and soft as she held my face side by side prompting me to my feet. i held her face and pressed my nose against hers as the cold fumbled around our bodies.

i knew she didn’t feel what i felt but i was happy that she let me kiss her and hold her like that for a minute.

she didn’t encourage my feelings but she was kind enough to let me indulge in them.

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Let’s just have sex because love, love means one of us has to fall. I don’t want to fall and I don’t want you to either. So let’s choose not to. Let’s choose to stay afloat and be guided by the current, to grow and ebb with the tide. To contort our bodies into each other, to wrestle with the mania and to listen to that song which speaks the feelings we can’t articulate. Let’s take our detachment and fears and forget about them for the evening, to only know this reality. 

As lovers we are image makers and artists and unique. We’re story tellers and dream chasers. We’re the fingerprints and snow flakes and forgotten child memories, metaphors and desires out of the ordinary. The impulse is deep and old and persistent. A drug, chasing the highs but not naive enough to not anticipate the lows as consequence.

We can’t be in love because this is not how love is made. 

The only things binding are the shackles on wrists. The only things blinding are the scarfs and dust bags. The only thing warm is the melted wax from burning candles over skin. It’s concrete and viscera, it’s the wet and the hard and the dirt and the rope, it’s the only love I want to know.

 

I’ve grown compliant. My life is easy and I sleep side by side with my best friend, sometimes we touch each other. I make promises of monogamy and those promises sometimes last three whole days. Maybe this is normal. Maybe feeling unfulfilled in a relationship of four years is normal. But I can’t stop my mind from wandering, thinking of others, lying about me, my existence, my responsibilities. Maybe it’s normal for people to fantasise about others. But maybe it’s not normal to act or pursue those fantasies.

Maybe I’m not normal.

Plenty of Fish, Tinder, HER, OK Cupid, I’ve had them all and more. I think part of me enjoys creating new profiles, creating an illusion of myself because I am a narcissist. I have a palm full of sweeties, come and take one, come and taste the mystery. You’ll assume they’re sweet but it’s only me who knows they soon grow sour…

Usually I am the pursuer. Girls want to feel special – and I am good at making girls feel special – but this time it’s not me who makes the first move. One day passes and you suggest we meet for a drink.

“Number one,” you say while pointing at the recent spilled beer mark on my thigh.
“Number two,” after I knock the tobacco out of my would be hand rolled cigarette.
“Number three,” when I trip over the last cobbled step in that eery pub.

“Are you always this clumsy?” The question hangs in the air while I blush and try to regain composure.
“Are you always this judgemental?”
“I’m never judgemental but I am always observant.”

We talk a lot, mainly about me, and you quickly discover that I don’t live alone. I quickly discover that you love games. You tell me your life is all about music, food and sex. You have a sex friend. I tell you I have more than one.

From there we started to play with each other. Not a normal game but a fucking psychological war to see who would fall first.

Later, the next evening, I’m at your apartment, “what do you eat?”
“Anything but cheese.”
“Are you allergic?”
“No, I just don’t like it.

You order pizza topped with four cheeses and I fucking eat it. We fuck. I don’t come and you tell me it’s psychological. We’re laying together, you’re kissing my forehead, stroking my hair, tucking that one strand back behind my ear.

“Are you staying here tonight?” Tension and silence fill the gap between our entwined fingers. I can’t look at you but instead bury my head beneath your chin.

“I don’t do sleepovers,” I whisper as you climb on top of me, staring into my eyes, smirking. “But I do want you to fuck me.”
“I’m not fucking you.”
“I want you to fuck me.”
“You’re not here. I’ve lost count how many times you’ve looked up at the clock.”
“I am here. I’m here. I’m right fucking here,” guiding your hand to my cunt, “fuck me please.”

The smirk on your face quickly fades and I think I have gotten my own way but this isn’t for my benefit. This is about power. You’re bigger than me, stronger and you make me feel so small, weak even. Eventually you stop and we’re laying in a puddle of your accomplishment, my humility.

“Now fuck off back to your girlfriend.”
“I don’t -“

Later, another evening, I visit you after a night out and I get defensive when you ask if I’m an alcoholic, subtly reminding me that I had three beers that first day we met while you only had two.

“You make me feel uneasy and uncomfortable.”
“Well if it’s comfort you’re looking for…” you hold your arm out and I cry.
“I barely know you but you make me feel naked and vulnerable, but safe too.” You run me a bath, pick out some pyjamas too big for me and I stay the night. In the morning you heat up croissants and brew fresh coffee and we smoke too many cigarettes. You ask me if I would mind if you fuck someone else and I tell you I couldn’t know. I ask you the same and you say yes.

When I leave it’s more than two days before we talk again.

“How are you?” A text that I reluctantly send but less than a minute later you call me.
“I’ve booked for us to go away together next month. Don’t make plans that week. Don’t ask me where we are going. Don’t ask any questions. Just say yes.”

I want to ask questions, mainly why haven’t you contacted me, where have you been, and what the fuck? Instead, silence again.

“I’m sorry we’re just friends.” I say, attempting to fill the void.
“Did I ask you something?” You say my name as though I’m being summoned by my Head of Year all over again. Your accent think and full, and how my name rolls off your tongue gives me instant goosebumps. “We are incompatible. I’m the definition of possessive and you’re not ready for that. You’re not ready for me. But you do intrigue me. And I like you. And I like it when you come.”

We had plans to meet on Tuesday but after a horrible day I needed to be at home with my best friend.

You call me. “The problem with you and I is that I like to plan and you don’t. The difference between you and I is that I respect the people I schedule time for and you don’t.”

We erase each other’s numbers and agree that it maybe could have worked if we were both emotionally available.

Last night we matched on Tinder. I think part of me fell in love with her. And when I think about her I get sad. She probably won’t sleep alone tonight but I know she will still feel lonely.

“Don’t burn all your bridges down,” he warns her. “You won’t have anyone left to turn to.”

“I’ll still have you, won’t I?” Her words slurred with pain or too much beer, he doesn’t know. “You always come running back even when I make your life miserable.

You can’t stay away from me.”

He wished he could tell her she was wrong.

Waiting

I let myself in and leave my bag at the door. I undress down to my underwear as per your request and kneel in my corner. Waiting.

All my senses are enhanced. My hearing attuned for any nuance of your presence, listening as you take steps on the floor above me, listening as the staircase creeks, my mind floundering and sense of time is lost.

Eyes fixated on the wall, watching for any hint of shadow. I’d close them but the quiet only grows louder, deafeningly so.

Sniff for any hint of your scent, your own signature smell traced with perfume. Panting and savouring the air like wild kittens do.

You see me and I hear a small hint of approval. Looking fiercely at the same point on the wall trying to find some composure, holding my hands tighter behind my back while a gentle graze of acknowledgement against my neck and down my back paints goosebumps over every etch of my skin.

You blindfold me and get yourself a drink. You sit down from across the room and watch me. You take my vanity and leave humility in its place as you watch my hands restlessly fidget behind my back, watch the curves of my body, watch me want you to want me.

I can feel your hunger for me fill the room. Black lace growing wet, my heart pounding in my chest, my palms mimicking what’s between my legs. Growing impatient. I want your touch, I want your attention, I want you.

Waiting isn’t a punishment, nor is it forlorn. It is an intrinsic foreplay for you know me well. You know that under my cute short blonde hair, my head is filling with erotic images from the past, present and anticipating the immediate future. Wicked thoughts running rampant with decadent possibilities. My overactive and creative mind readying my body for you without a single word.

Invite me over to you on my hands and knees, words so subtle yet they punch me hard. Winded for you, wet for you. Feel my lips with yours and catch my breath. I can taste your need, your lust, heavy and intoxicating, tantalising my tongue. Smell the bergamot embellished with my nervousness and relief, the enticing scent of your little girl desperate to be taken by your hands, a need only you can satisfy.

The Good Girl

“You’re always such a good girl for me,” he said.

And she was.

She was a good girl to him and she was a good girl to the world. She wanted so badly to be perceived as good. If people saw that in her then maybe it could be true. Maybe that would make it true. But she wanted so many bad things. Things that good girls shouldn’t want.

Tonight, he looked into her eyes and saw his precious and sweet submissive. But she needed him to see something else.

“Open your mouth for me, baby.” He stood over her still fully attired while she knelt naked before him. She stared up at him, eyes neutral but her mouth remained closed.

He cocked his head, “what is it?”

He let her silence stand for a short moment before he grabbed her hair and pulled her head back and placing himself at her lips.

She considered. And then with a half cocked smile opened for him. He worked her mouth slow and steady. She was compliant but nothing more. Her eyes wandered to the window and watched the contrast of the blowing snow flakes shining in the bright sunlight. They flew wildly at their impulse but did not escape the heated rays. In the end, one by one, they seemed to burn out and disappear mid-air.

He cleared his throat. Her inattention had not gone unnoticed. Palms moved to each side of her face like blinkers and focused her forward. She slackened her torso so that she began to slump and he was forced to hold her up with his hands.

He was so patient with her; so very good to her. Ordinarily, his demeanour rubbed off and made her shine. But, as of just very recently, she had fallen into a funk and would hold no polish. The good girl mask had been pulled loose and what was underneath resembled hard moulded plastic that had been corrupted by her wearing the disguise too tight and for too long.

She reached her arms to the floor behind her, leaned back and lifted her ass. Pushing awkwardly with her feet, she scurried backwards like a crab, breaking free of his grip. Back, back, back until her head bumped against the mattress. She looked at him in thinly veiled challenge.

Although his overall countenance gave no tell, the crinkles of his eyes at their corners let slip his emotion: amusement.

She pulled her knees up tight to her chest and pouted.

“I’m not chasing you across the room just because you want me to.” He shook his head firmly and crossed his arms over her chest. Her pout simmered and began to perk into a scowl. “Is it that bad tonight?” He asked. She nodded, eyes looking listlessly out the window. “How bad?”

“Really bad.” She didn’t like to say it. She preferred to poke and goad him.

At first he hadn’t understood it. He had pursued her, and given her what she wanted, sometimes without fully realising what he was doing but his ability to read her had improved. More and more, he was figuring her out. In response, she had become more cunning in her efforts but, today, she had failed. The inattention was good. The escape, too obvious.

“Why is it so hard for you to tell me when you’re feeling this way?” She shrugged. It wasn’t an attempt at avoidance. It was just too hard to articulate.

Outside of that room, there were few who ever wanted to know how the good girl was feeling. They only wanted one thing from her: her strength. To admit weakness, or to admit to having needs, was unthinkable. Especially when they come in her favour.

“It’s easier to poke.” She finally said.
“Maybe…” He walked to the armchair in the corner of the room and sat down, “but it’s not going to be anymore.”

She stared at him from the floor, watching as he silently returned her look. Although she was not aware of a clock in the room, she swore that she could hear one ticking, measuring out the sudden quiet that had fallen between them. She shifted back and forth on her ass unable to get comfortable as her fingers rubbed absentmindedly over the soft skin of her thighs.

“Please.” She could stand the disconnect no longer. He raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Padding across the carpet on her hands and knees, she hung her head like a penitent puppy. “Please…” Her cheeks rested on the arm of his chair near his hand.

“Please, what?”

Good question. She wanted that one word to convey so much. Her wide eyes stared up helplessly at him.

“No,” his tone was even, but firm. No? Which unspoken question was he answering? “From now on, when you need something, I expect you to ask for it directly. No more clever slut games.” She shifted her head away as if looking elsewhere would help her hide from him. “I can still see you. More and more, in fact.” He moved his hand away and the foot felt like a mile. She peered longingly where it settled on his thigh.

He had such beautiful hands; such well proportioned hands. They were lightly roughened from life but not at all hard. To her, they were the hands of an artist. Visions flashed of how they had worked on her, sculpted her, broken her down and then formed her again. How she needed their magic now.

“If I’m distracting you, perhaps you should go have a seat against the wall while you collect your thoughts.” He nodded in the the direction of the far corner.
“Is that what you’re telling me to do?”
“No,” he corrected. “I’m asking you to speak plainly about what you’re feeling and what you need. And to trust me with it. But if you can’t,” he leaned forward in her direction, “then we have hit a wall, and you’ll have to crawl over there and meet it.” His dexterous fingers began tapping his thigh in emphasis.

She took a slow, deep breath and swallowed hard. Putting both hands on his knees, facing him. He parted his thighs wide as if opening a gate for her. She seized the opportunity and scampered between his legs where she felt safer and more contained. The crinkle at his eye once again appeared then quickly vanished.

“So, are you ready to tell me what you need?” She nodded sheepishly. “No more slut games?” She shook her head and drew another long breath.
“Of course, now you already know…”
“That’s not the point.” Her front teeth chewed on her lip as she noshed on her words.
“I feel very empty tonight. It’s as though the emptiness is holding down the anger.”
“Is there a reason why you’re angry tonight?” His voice held concern.
“I don’t always know why it comes when it does… It just does…”

He nodded empathetically. His girl, his good girl, was generally sweet natured and even well tempered, but his whore…

She was forged from a different metal which was more difficult to temper. And, coming from the furnace himself, he understood. “And what do you need?”

There were no tears. They would be actively brought forth later. Her eyes were filled with something else. Something raw.

“Use,” she squinted as though someone was going to come running into the room and slap her for saying it. “I need to be used by you… to be given purpose… because I feel like I don’t have any of my own right now.” There was a desperate gasp, like a puff of smoke struggling to write words in the sky, “I hate the emptiness.”

Again, he nodded then sat patiently and waited. For him to fill the void, she had to be first willing to fill the space between them.

“I need to have emotion drawn in me to displace the anger,” she drew another breath and continued, “I need you to get into my head in order to get me out of it.

I need to be taken over and have my demon exorcised… even if that demon is me…”

“Demons are not easily wrenched free,” his face was kind but serious, “I need to be sure that you know what you’re asking for.” She began to wriggle uncomfortably between his legs.
“You know what I’m asking for.” This was hardly, after all, their first exorcism.
“Yes, I know,” He reached down and cupped her head in between his oh-so-capable hands, “but you need to know it too. You need to own it and stop pretending that it comes from somewhere else.

When I pry the demon loose, only you can embrace it… so that you’ve got a hold on it, and it’s not got the hold of you…” His fingers trailed down her cheeks as he released them. “So. Plainly now. What are you asking for?”

“Tears.” And with that, all remaining pretense would be washed away. “Bring me to tears. Whatever it takes.”
“That’s a good girl.” His voice was smooth and reassuring.

A good girl? Maybe so. Maybe by a type of definition that wouldn’t be understood by most folks.

“Sir, there is one more thing…”
“Yes?”
“Love me. When it is all over I need you to love me.” Her hair fell over her eyes as her head moved to rest on his thigh and her arms clung around his legs.

The crinkles around the eyes again.

“No, baby… I will love you through it all…”