The sound of the fierce slap I had planted on his face silenced the pub. It was the kind of triple exclamation mark that makes stomachs sink, like the sound of glass breaking in an expensive restaurant.
After a second or two, the stun wore off. He forgot to keep playing it cool and chased after me. "I'm sorry I'm such an jerk... I don't know any other way to be. I'm trying to stop... I'm sorry," pleaded the thickheaded man as he kissed my furrowed brow. I blinked my tearful eyes hard as I loathed myself for my feelings. A criminal record including two restraining orders for violent destruction of property as well as a DUI, the emotional maturity and communication skills of a child with Asperger's without the elevated IQ, dead beat tendencies, a sty of a room in his parents' house as a grown man, and lastly, painfully, an innocent unwitting monogamously programmed girlfriend? How much more evidence did I need that this guy was nothing but trouble and stupid to boot? And yet... maybe it was an energetic thing resulting from a past life of being torrid lovers... or maybe it was his freakishly mammoth dick... but in any case, the only way I could identify my feelings for this stupid piece of shit was, foolishly, love.
Next thing I knew he was asking me, "What do you want?" My hunger to own him was so great, I allowed a clichéd response to slip from between my lips: "You."
Next thing I knew he was piercing my being. He held that familiar yet disarming gaze with me, a look of such unprecedented sincerity that I feared my heart my stop beating at any moment like a bunny that dies in the arms of the child who squeezes it too tightly.
After our little deaths we lay limp among the twisted sheets with the embarrassment of our sincerity, nakedness, and pressing guilt for our lack of regret seeping in, along with our sweat.
When we were finally able to move and enjoy critical thought again, the issue at hand presented itself: being tender with each other was kind of beside the point.
We went to a bar. He pissed me off. I dragged him back to his room. I tied him up and beat the crap out of him in a manner from which I am sure he still retains scars. Physical or emotional, it doesn't matter to me which. All that mattered was that he was, in that moment, my slave to abuse.
I finally unshackled him and ordered that he fuck me like a man this time. Such an erotic rage was unleashed, I thought he would split me, rip me apart. He violated me with delicious conviction and in doing so exacted retribution for his humiliation. "Is this what you wanted?" he hissed beyond his tensely veined neck, gritted teeth, and focused glare. Between my cries, I could only nod yes as he continued to forcefully ravage. (Heaven.)
Nothing about that experience could change the fact of "the girlfriend" matter. She was as good as he was going to get in terms of serious life partners and I applaud her for swallowing his hot load of royal fuck up with a relatively impressive amount of grace and acceptance. I owned my slave for a hot afternoon, but I knew that in the end I would have to let him go.
The thing that strikes me again and again is that monogamous people (that is: those seeking fidelity in singular partners) don't realize that to satisfy their curiosity with more open "non-monogamous" people (those who seek fidelity whilst enjoying the freedom of multiple partners) is to crucify them. I was hurt that I was good enough for that one misstep, but not enough for more - a waltz of affairs that might have lasted in a lifetime the analogous length of a song in a movie. However transcendent the event felt to me at the time, feelings were trumped by security, something I can never be able to offer as long as security equals static. I have endured a handful of lovers walking out of my life tearfully on this account, and that is something I have come to expect. People say I'm a heartbreaker, but the reality is that openness makes me raw and vulnerable to the core. Because I have multiple lovers, it's hard for people to appreciate the sutures sewn in my own heart, and yet I don't expect them to. It's just the way of the world.
Also, his dad came home early and saw me fully nude. (That was fun!)
Infuriated, I grabbed my things: a purse, a jacket, and a bag of nasty food and booze splattered work clothes. I delivered my next line from between gritted teeth, just before storming out into the cold:
"You're welcome, asshole."
It felt good.
After a second or two, the stun wore off. He forgot to keep playing it cool and chased after me. "I'm sorry I'm such an jerk... I don't know any other way to be. I'm trying to stop... I'm sorry," pleaded the thickheaded man as he kissed my furrowed brow. I blinked my tearful eyes hard as I loathed myself for my feelings. A criminal record including two restraining orders for violent destruction of property as well as a DUI, the emotional maturity and communication skills of a child with Asperger's without the elevated IQ, dead beat tendencies, a sty of a room in his parents' house as a grown man, and lastly, painfully, an innocent unwitting monogamously programmed girlfriend? How much more evidence did I need that this guy was nothing but trouble and stupid to boot? And yet... maybe it was an energetic thing resulting from a past life of being torrid lovers... or maybe it was his freakishly mammoth dick... but in any case, the only way I could identify my feelings for this stupid piece of shit was, foolishly, love.
Ever since I started working there, we'd been aware of each other, though we didn't share a word for months. I started out as front of house and came into the kitchen rarely. When I did, I could count on him gazing at me. Gazing turned into staring, then staring turned into meditative intent. Maybe on occasion I stared back.
We broke the ice awkwardly. A comment or two here and there, and innocuous question. I left for a month to travel - It was during this time he collected a girlfriend.
We broke the ice awkwardly. A comment or two here and there, and innocuous question. I left for a month to travel - It was during this time he collected a girlfriend.
I came back and was promoted, finding myself flitting between the front and back of house - the difference being that the front of house required a certain finesse of politesse, and the kitchen required a sharp tongue. In no time, I found myself barking acerbic teasings in a battle of wits.
All the other guys saw something was there between us, and teased endlessly. Banter was silly, something like:
me: "I just wanna do good"
him: "uh, don't you mean do well? I thought you went to an ivy league school"
me: "I thought you went to beer camp instead of school."
OR
me: "He showed me a picture of his girlfriend last night that he really shouldn't show to other people..."
<moment of uncomfortable silence in the kitchen>
me: "It was of her face."
<moment of schadenfreude jubilation in the kitchen>
OR
chef: "Hear that, man? She broke up with her boyfriend!"
him: "You mean there's a slot in her stable? No thank you..."
me: "That metaphor's relevant because you look like a horse."
...and so on.
I started to get high on cutting him down. This guy took cuts like a champ, but eventually I started to see pain in his sad little face - it was then when I finally realized he had feelings that I resolved to be nice. I asked him if he wanted a beer after work, he accepted, and you know, he wasn't that bad. He even paid for my beer. Pretty soon it got to be a post-shift tradition, and it was alright. I even looked forward to it.
Things got out of hand when we started talking about kink.
At first it was a casual discussion of sexual preferences and various city kink club scenes worth frequenting and our experiences there, as well as the ones we hoped to have. Soon after I found myself driving 45 minutes out of my way to a shit hole ghetto thinking: "fuck fuck fuck, what am I doing, fuck..."
Next thing I knew he was silently, solemnly, and even gently leading me up the stairs.
Next thing I knew he was carefully peeling my clothes off, with the tenderness and respect one would disrobe an expensive porcelain doll, a collector's item.
At first it was a casual discussion of sexual preferences and various city kink club scenes worth frequenting and our experiences there, as well as the ones we hoped to have. Soon after I found myself driving 45 minutes out of my way to a shit hole ghetto thinking: "fuck fuck fuck, what am I doing, fuck..."
Next thing I knew he was silently, solemnly, and even gently leading me up the stairs.
Next thing I knew he was carefully peeling my clothes off, with the tenderness and respect one would disrobe an expensive porcelain doll, a collector's item.
Next thing I knew he was asking me, "What do you want?" My hunger to own him was so great, I allowed a clichéd response to slip from between my lips: "You."
Next thing I knew he was piercing my being. He held that familiar yet disarming gaze with me, a look of such unprecedented sincerity that I feared my heart my stop beating at any moment like a bunny that dies in the arms of the child who squeezes it too tightly.
After our little deaths we lay limp among the twisted sheets with the embarrassment of our sincerity, nakedness, and pressing guilt for our lack of regret seeping in, along with our sweat.
When we were finally able to move and enjoy critical thought again, the issue at hand presented itself: being tender with each other was kind of beside the point.
We went to a bar. He pissed me off. I dragged him back to his room. I tied him up and beat the crap out of him in a manner from which I am sure he still retains scars. Physical or emotional, it doesn't matter to me which. All that mattered was that he was, in that moment, my slave to abuse.
I finally unshackled him and ordered that he fuck me like a man this time. Such an erotic rage was unleashed, I thought he would split me, rip me apart. He violated me with delicious conviction and in doing so exacted retribution for his humiliation. "Is this what you wanted?" he hissed beyond his tensely veined neck, gritted teeth, and focused glare. Between my cries, I could only nod yes as he continued to forcefully ravage. (Heaven.)
Nothing about that experience could change the fact of "the girlfriend" matter. She was as good as he was going to get in terms of serious life partners and I applaud her for swallowing his hot load of royal fuck up with a relatively impressive amount of grace and acceptance. I owned my slave for a hot afternoon, but I knew that in the end I would have to let him go.
The thing that strikes me again and again is that monogamous people (that is: those seeking fidelity in singular partners) don't realize that to satisfy their curiosity with more open "non-monogamous" people (those who seek fidelity whilst enjoying the freedom of multiple partners) is to crucify them. I was hurt that I was good enough for that one misstep, but not enough for more - a waltz of affairs that might have lasted in a lifetime the analogous length of a song in a movie. However transcendent the event felt to me at the time, feelings were trumped by security, something I can never be able to offer as long as security equals static. I have endured a handful of lovers walking out of my life tearfully on this account, and that is something I have come to expect. People say I'm a heartbreaker, but the reality is that openness makes me raw and vulnerable to the core. Because I have multiple lovers, it's hard for people to appreciate the sutures sewn in my own heart, and yet I don't expect them to. It's just the way of the world.
Also, his dad came home early and saw me fully nude. (That was fun!)
In the end, despite the face-slapping at the bar, the half-assed apologies and platitudes, and finally the lingering question marks, things are still jovial between us. Our secret is now the greatest thing we share. In a moment of confessional disclosure, I did tell the foul-mouthed bartender. His reaction was: "I can actually see you retards being good together."
I'm glad I had that experience, satisfying a number of burning curiosities in doing so. I'm happy to have realized that in discovering my adulthood, I have become a person who is willing to be vulnerable, to risk by saying "yes".
For anecdotes of *functional* and sexy debauchery, go HERE.
Check out the latest from Seduce and Confuse. I dare you.
I'm glad I had that experience, satisfying a number of burning curiosities in doing so. I'm happy to have realized that in discovering my adulthood, I have become a person who is willing to be vulnerable, to risk by saying "yes".
For anecdotes of *functional* and sexy debauchery, go HERE.
Check out the latest from Seduce and Confuse. I dare you.
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