Unattainable

I want to tear him apart. I want to reach inside of him and stir him like I’m scrambling eggs and rip out his heart and show it to him. Scream at him to look at it and make him admit that it’s beating for me. I want to see him hurt. More than anything, I want to hurt him like he has hurt me. I want him to feel inconsequential, but it’s impossible, because I have made him my King. He Knows.

There is an acute misery and pleasure in wanting someone who keeps you on high alert, drawing you in, wrapping you up, consuming you, and then unfolding, unraveling you, dropping you, casting you aside. They come back for you eventually but you don’t know when, so you wait.

The first time we fuck I’m running away from a relationship. I think I’m running to him, because I don’t yet realize he’s unattainable. The night before I move out of my ex’s apartment I text him and he is available. We sit in the backyard of Lady Jay’s and he admires my matching manicure and pedicure. The nails are bright red and pointed at the tips. I know he wants me, and I want him too, but he understands my situation. He says I can stay at his if I’d like—“We don’t have to do anything.” I agree.

At his apartment, he gives me a shirt to sleep in and I slip it on, turning away from him as I undress. But once in bed, I roll over to turn off the lamp on the bedside table and in this maneuver, I reveal my ass, clad in black lace panties under his shirt. He groans with defeat seeing my ass, and rolls toward me, beginning to press himself into me. I open up to him. He’s on top of me, altogether new: a new weight, a new girth, a new man. It feels like we fuck a million times that night, we’re so hungry for each other. This is the beginning of a two year long feast and famine…

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