Chapter One – #30

by Christine Wild

I could see his fullback tattoo on the mirror ceiling. I could see myself underneath him, my nails clawing his back. It was doubling the feeling, when he touched the very end of me. The Weeknd was playing in the background. And I’m gon’love you girl, the way you need. His thrusts were so intentional and deep. They synced to the music. His breath was caressing my neck, driving my senses to oblivion. The smell of paint in the studio and our bodies mingling was intoxicating. I got my heart right here, I got my scars right here. So let me muthafuckin’ love you. And so I let him.

 

We met at a part-time work thing I did. He was wearing his uniform, white shirt and black pants, bowtie and hair slicked back. There was pain in his eyes—this mystery and passion that could devour you in one glance. I told my girlfriend: he’s mine tonight. I made no excuses. I took the long way around to drive him home. There, in my new car, I untied my hair, innocently. He took the bite. We walked his dog… the anticipation building between us. I could not stop staring into his eyes; brown with a tinge of red they were. Once at his bedside, he undressed me, with care and attention. He observed and got to know every single inch of me. We fucked. Several times. It was the kind of raw humanity you only get from a complete stranger, in a private room with no view. Whilst I was having my post-coital cigarette, he looked at me. The mystery was still there, but there was a newfound longing. He let me care for him, in that moment. He was grateful in his behavior, his hands never leaving my skin. He held me that night.

We were never an item. He was my escape and I was probably just guarantied gratification. We had an unspoken agreement. We asked no questions, answered simply when we were available. It was magical to feel so intimate yet so far removed from someone else. To know you are a part, however slight, of someone’s life is an underrated, undervalued occurrence. He was an artist. I could tell by his attention to detail in the moment, and his subsequent complete detachment. He lived in his mind and heart; he shared only his body with me. But how those limbs spoke to me. They showed me everything I needed to know, exactly the way I needed to be told. We lived every single one of those random nights at its fullest, him under the influence, me under his. I felt like a woman in his eyes. You know, like a full-blown woman, with her flaws and qualities, that each served their purpose. I did not need anything in his arms. I was never in love with him. His energy was my drug. I will always hold a very fond memory of him, and his bottomless eyes that provoked in me ecstasy and sorrow simultaneously, yet so soothingly.