Blue
The night makes me feel lonely; it crawls, its slimy fingers making me uncomfortable, foreign inside my own body. I keep still, tracing the large swathes of blue paint on the walls of my living room with my eyes. I feel like a ghost passing through the hallways of an ancient ancestral mansion to keep herself anchored, but he should be here any minute. There won’t be any talk of ghosts and after six months of not seeing him, I’ll actually feel him this time. There will be no more texts of how he’ll make me beg for his cock, no more texts of how he’ll make me his whore. No more me touching myself to the same old dreamed up scenarios of men, who are desperate to conquer, to possess, to rule over my generosity of soul. He’s ringing my bell now; he’ll soon be entering my lair of blue light. Blue satin dress. Blue bedsheets. Blue couch. Blue. Blue. Blue. It’s sorcery. It’s enchantment.
“Ina, you smell divine,” he says, pulling me into his arms, his broad shoulders like half crescent moons about to become whole once they’re on top of my body, embracing me, keeping me bound to his mast. With one finger, he pulls down a curl, straightening it, and then releasing it back into a spiral, a whirlpool for his fingers. He whispers, “I love your hair. I always did…” as his eyes, bright with predatory confidence, take a visual bite of my breasts that are rebelling, as usual, against the snugness of fabric. Before I can say anything, he grabs me by the jaw and presses his lips onto mine, making me take in his desire. His kiss is prickly, raw, and overwhelming. His thick black beard conjures up a string of rashes around my thirsting lips.
Does my face look ugly now? Surely not as ugly as the secret you’ve kept hidden? But you know what I’m like—dramatic—you’d call me, for spinning everything with emotion, a meaning or metaphor that’s too subjective for your allegedly objective practical ass.
He buries his face onto my ringlets and ‘magnolia bliss’ perfumed neck. Like a tree branch I keep him perched on top in peace. Doesn’t your girlfriend of two years have straight hair, the type you hate? Should I tell you I know? Or keep that door tightly shut? He nibbles on my earlobe as he wraps his hand around my neck, pressing gently. “Baby, how horny are you for daddy?” I can hear the voices of my friends telling me to keep him as far away from me as possible, but I convince myself all I want is to feel a pinch, maybe see a little blood, and then I can move on.
I want him inside of me, pushing violently into the black emptiness that’s between my legs, tightening myself around his hard phallic veins and blood. Oh yes, hardened against love—immune, repellent and violent. Somehow, it feels good. It feels good to be ripped apart, to be rendered into pieces like kernels of corn, still golden, but no longer part of, or attached to the central, cylindrical body. Just like me —soon to be free, eyes misting with the fullness of being more than mundane flesh.
On the couch, seated with my legs crossed, I reveal the milky shock of my round thigh. He looks away, his eyes taking in the blue walls and the spaciousness that is the room’s main feature, only the couch and the old wooden desk at the far corner, engulfed by the soft yellow light of the buzzing bulbs in the ceiling. He asks me how I’ve been, and I stutter, not knowing how to answer that question. I feel his warm breath on my face and neck, his dark eyes probing me, studying my overly bitten red lips. His lips go up in a half smirk as if to conceal some other, animalistic part in him that doesn’t actually want to talk or listen. “I don’t know...everything feels dry and mechanical. It’s the same thing every day. When people ask me that question it’s like my mind goes blank and I realize nothing exciting has been happening in my life,” I say as I tug on the small blue threads coming out the edges of my dress and it irks me, these loose lost threads, tiny tears, wrinkles of fabric, these imperfections. They make my stomach knot up in disgust, in dread of this imperfect world, this imperfect self with a brain that also has these loose threads hanging out. If only I pull on one thread, the whole fabric of my sanity would unravel. But he holds my hands, and that seems to hold me together, his fingers diving in-between mine—all the spaces filled as he squeezes, urging me to lay on my back as he begins to devour me, his hands frantically searching my breasts, the small of my back, and my thighs, looking for the perfect pliable spot to make his home.
With my legs wrapped around his waist, Bluebeard lifts me up, carrying me down the squeaky hallway of my apartment to the bedroom, my hands holding tightly onto his black shirt, and his hands, purposely stationed onto my bare inner thighs, his fingers teasing the wet fabric of my floral underwear already stuck onto my sex. He throws me onto the bed, a woman of parts, of fragments, on top of sheets shifting under our weight, his eyes intoxicated, dimmed, as if he’s forgetting himself as he takes his clothes off. We part our mouths open for one another and we kiss like a river spilling onto itself, my tongue swirling itself around his, speaking of another world where we are not our jobs, our boredom, or our families. There’s no other woman but me right now. Do you feel the same when you’re with her? Should I be feeling bad? Guilty for knowing you’re in a relationship yet allowing this to happen anyway?
He stops me from taking off the blue, now all scrunched up and covering only my stomach. He says he wants to fuck me in it. “You tease,” he whispers as he bites on my erect nipples, the edges of his teeth grazing the goosebumps forming around these small hills. I smile, then go on to bite my lower lips, as I always do in the nudes I send him. In one, I had one of my breasts spilling out of the dress, my fingers rapidly rubbing my nipple with my index finger. I purposely pulled my dress high enough to reveal half of my freshly shaved pussy, but he’d have to zoom in to take a better look. I’m sure you did? You love it so much. You must be obsessed, under my spell, if only for a moment. I bite his neck, my moans mixing with his heat and sweat, as his soaked fingers speed up their circular motions around my engorged clit, my back arched in pursuit of more—more colorless, ethereal sensations.
The sounds of my heart, lungs, womb—each a string vibrating in this musical hell. Sometimes it’s clear enough; what feeling or what organ is playing a particular tune and it fills me with joy, that knowing, that deep connection to self, to aliveness, to the erotic. Or is it love? I don’t know what love is anymore. All I know is that I want him. My nails dig into his freckled back and he moans into my ears, his pelvis pushing, his cock digging into my dark sweet spot. There’s only silence to seal that moment of death as it shoots up, penetrating and loosening my muscles, the ligaments, the nerves that keep everything together. At last, my lust can see the orange-red sun–oh, the delicious release from darkness.
My Bluebeard, this liar, rests on top of me, forcefully inhaling and exhaling with relief. I massage his scalp with my fingers and he groans, raising his head to fix his eyes onto mine, his hands cupping my face and I see the marks I left on him—red smears from my lipstick, all this burning vitality of mine given. It’s your turn now to bleed. “Were you going to tell me about your girlfriend?” I say calmly, my legs tightening around his back like a spider tightening its threads around its prey. “Or will you tell me after you fuck me a second time?” I chuckle. He stares at me, silent, as if I’m the evil sea witch who stole his voice or more like medusa turning men into stone with the cursed truth. “Well? Get off me first, so I can get out of this dress I hate.” All the blue threads unravelling.