Features blurred. Or masked, in the event the angles of her face fall into too sharp of relief.
Faceless and nameless.
Her body is beautiful.
Soft skin and lush curves, full firm breasts and flared hips.
Supple thighs and firm calves.
Everything a woman is supposed to be.
And I hate her.
It is a time of midnight confessions. Of suspected truths confirmed. Of admissions and revelations.
He has just given voice to long-held secrets, and this is one of mine.
I hate her.
I hate her for her ‘correct’ body. I despise her for her vapid beauty. I loathe her for her ability to bear children. I want to punish her perfect breasts.
I look over to see how he is reacting to these life-long thoughts I am only now giving voice to. Because if he can’t take this, there’s no way he will be able to manage what’s coming next.
But any trepidation I am experiencing at vocalizing this fantasy is allayed by his gentle nod.
It is not a gesture of understanding. He doesn’t understand. But that’s not important. I don’t need him to understand; I need him to know.
It’s not sexual.
It’s about sex, but it’s not sexually stimulating for me. It’s not the kind of thing I flash on when I’m masturbating and approaching orgasm; it’s not a moving picture based on memory or a result of a conversation around someone else’s desires.
It’s not sexy to me.
But it’s definitely sex-y.
I clarify this in matter-of-fact tones, committed now to my course of action. He’ll think what he will. I have to trust that he has known me long enough, and knows me well enough, that he will understand this for what it is, and that the telling will not be cause for undue expectation or unnecessary consternation.
We’ve been talking about fantasies tonight. I am fascinated by the way the mind works, and his is so very different than mine. When it comes to sex, it is – for me – about the Who, not the What.
This is different.
I don’t give half a damn about the Who. Who she is matters not at all. There is no Who in my mind when this scenario plays out. She is female, that is all I know.
And I hate her.
She is the object of my ministrations.
Not a person.
And pleasure is not my goal.
Oh, I give her orgasms. I fuck her, rough and hard and long, using glass and silicone and fingers and fist. I stretch her sore and force her to cum. Again. More. One more time.
It is ceaseless.
Over and over and over, I increase my demand, long past the point where pleasure has become pain.
And I do dole out pain.
I leave my marks on her.
Thumb prints on her inner thighs from prying her legs open.
Scratch marks all over her torso.
Handprint bruises on her breasts.
I use her. I abuse her.
Until I am satisfied.
And then I walk away.
There is more, but the details vary in both specificity and importance with every envisioning of this scene, and I think for now he has heard enough.
I give him a moment to absorb all that I’ve said – and all that I haven’t – and when he looks over at me with a slightly raised brow, I smile.
This fantasy began when I was a teenager. I’ve played the scenario over in my mind enough times to know what it’s about, but we don’t get into that. Someday perhaps we will. But not tonight.
“It’s not the kind of fantasy that gets me off,” I conclude.
The fact that it doesn’t get me off is something I’ve puzzled over in private reflection for over 25 years. What is it about this very sexual scene that appeals to me in such a non-sexual way? Freud would have a field day.
I don’t share these thoughts; they simply float, unspoken, into the void.
I shrug at his trailing inquiry, a small smile tugging at my lips.
“It’s anger management,” is the only answer I can give. “When I am seething, when that hard hot knot settles in my stomach and threatens to burn me from the inside out… When I lose control… When I am at that point beyond frustration, where I can’t breathe through the lump in my throat and I’m so angry I can’t cry…”
“That’s where my mind goes. That’s what brings me back to calm.”