At least, that’s what I brace myself to say for the full hour before You come to bed. I repeat it to myself, ready to say it to You casually once You join me.
But I don’t.
Why? Because I’m embarrassed. Because I’m afraid it will be obvious how scripted it is. Because You’ve just walked in and called me pretty, and I certainly don’t want You to stop calling me pretty–but silently, I add a second part to it, my insatiability filling in the blank You don’t even know is there: “It’s good you’ve got that going for you. There isn’t much else.”
See, I have this second-rate version of You in my head. (“Isn’t everything you do second-rate?”) An hour ago, You turned me around while we were fucking and I pushed my face into the bed, hearing “I couldn’t bear to look at those disgusting faces you make any longer.” That’s a frequent one. “Keep your ass up, disappointment. Can’t you even do that much?” That’s another.
When You allow me to masturbate, I see You in the corner of the room, Your arms crossed like that day in the airport, observing, waiting. You watch me, mock me, even time me. I bore you. “Go on. You can’t get yourself off? Poor baby. I’d have you begging for me to stop by now. How does it feel, knowing I can manipulate your body so much better than you yourself?” I know how pathetic it is that I do this. I even hear You say, “I can’t believe you need to pretend I’m there in order to come. Don’t you have any imagination of your own? Of course not,” You smirk. “You weren’t built for that.” I can’t see anyone else. I stopped trying that two bedrooms ago.
You are the voice in my head. My earworm, my hallucination: You. You are what haunts me; You are all my nightmares. You’re the waking ones, too–when You’re there and when You’re not. You are the reason I have any self-control at all, like that time You told me You didn’t want to hear me anymore, my whining or heavy breathing, that if You did You’d stop and I’d have to live with myself knowing that You didn’t get off. I gave myself petechiae that night, limiting my own air. In the moments before You make me lose consciousness sometimes, I almost reach that feeling of despair. I almost remember how awful that felt, my fear of failure, my sense of dread. It isn’t quite as good as when You make me feel those things. It isn’t quite as whole. It’s empty, like me.
Why post this now? Is that easier than just saying that one sentence to You? Why share it with everyone? Maybe it’s the exhibitionist in me, the one You threatened to make hump a pillow while an audience watched. Or maybe it’s just my need for attention, but only on my terms–which they’ll give me, as they always do and always have (“Shameless narcissist. You are a disgrace.”) Everyone but You, that is, which is probably the whole point. Or maybe it’s just the recognition that when You’re actually there, I am smaller than small. I cannot predict. I cannot pretend. I cannot be so candid with You, Your laughter so near.
But for whatever it’s worth, Owner, I think I’m having another degradation phase.
I know it isn’t worth very much.