To Java Biscuit. Your words move me. I miss you. I love you.
By Sol Corazon
I want to hurt someone.
I need to hurt someone.
But only if they want it too.
Sick isnít it?
Today was one of those totally fucked up days in the ER, where everything that could go wrong did: a major pileup on the highway closest to the hospital, three patients crashing all at once, right before the accident victims arrived and an irate family member blowing up in the waiting room. Shit. Adrenaline junkie I may be, but it was almost too much, even for me.
I just Ö need it. I claim that I donít. I say that it doesnít matter, vanilla or whatever, I just love sex. I really donít need the SM. Sometimes though, on a night like tonight, when my nerves are vibrating and twitching and Iím feeling raw, like the top layer of skin has been scraped away or like all of the cells in my body are spitting fire, I know that Iím lying to myself, that I NEED it. Itís not a game, itís not just something I like to do on occasion to spice things up, and itís not role play.
Itís me. Itís whatís at the very heart of me. This thing builds up inside of me. A pressure that makes me feel like Iím gonna implode. No, I donít mean to say explode. That would be too much like right and I always do things backwards. Maybe because Iím left handed.
Nah, if it came right down to it, Iíd implode because Iím one of those people who keeps everything inside, everything contained. Iím one of those people that other people assume is cool, calm and always in control. Yeah, right.
Someone actually told me theyíd never met anyone as centered as me. I restrained myself from laughing hysterically and just chuckled a little. They have no idea. My foster sister, Karen, once told me that Iím so chill that itís scary and that people find me intimidating. Not the first time Iíve heard that one.
The bar Iím in is one of those dark, grungy bars that you can get lost in if you want to. The air is thick with smoke and violet colored, the floor is so sticky that if you stay still for too long you might end up glued in place. And thereís men, all kinds of men: white men, black men, Latino men, Asian men, tall, short, fat and skinny men.
Testosterone, my drug of choice.
I was already high and still riding the wave of adrenaline from earlier today; the pulsing, rhythmic beat of the music and the presence of all of these men ratcheted me even higher. The volume was just right; the low hum of chatter and the rhythmic trance music layered over top. And the smell of men. There is nothing like the smell of a roomful of men.
It was a Tuesday night, so it wasnít as packed as it would be on a Friday night. There was even a small, empty table in the corner in the back. For now, it was enough to just sit, sucking on a bottled water and absorbing the atmosphere.
Someone else seemed to have the same idea. I glanced at the guy at the table next to me. Our glances caught and held.
He looked at me as though he knew me. He probably thought he did. But I am not an easy person to know.
I donít want to be an easy person to know. I donít like anyone in my head and I donít like anyone crowding my space. Not sure why. Iíve just always been like that.
He gave me a funny look that I couldnít figure out and then looked down. He was a small guy and Iíve never been attracted to petite guys. Shit, they might break and I donít like to break my toys. I have friends of all different nationalities but I have never been sexually attracted to white guys.
They say like attracts like. For me, there is nothing like having a beautiful, chocolate covered man, handcuffed, on his knees in front of me, fighting it, fighting himself, fighting me, trying to resist whatever it is inside of someone that makes them want to submit to the will of another. That sweet, heady illusion, of power and control, gets me off.
I like big men, muscular, thick men, with thighs like tree trunks and big, juicy round asses that I can squeeze and grab onto when Iím tappin that ass, from the back, from the side, on top, grinding my cock in nice and slow; that ruthless, exquisite, excruciating, long glide that makes them beg for it. Damn. Itís been too long.
Something drags my eyes back to him. The guy at the table next to me. Heís staring at me again. His eyes latched onto mine and wouldnít let go.
He had the kind of face that you just could tell was geeky when he was around fourteen or fifteen. Ten or more years later the face had a very delicate beauty. I knew that his eyes were a hazy kind of grey blue, the color of an early morning, foggy sky before the mist burns off. They were kind of sweet and dreamy too. He had a long mouth with thin, perfectly formed pink lips. The kind of mouth that looked like it would smile a lot.
His nose. Well, Iím a nose person. The right kind of nose can really turn me on. His was long, and narrow, just like his face. He wasnít a tall guy but he has one of those long, lean, wiry bodies.
Whoa. Nah. Ainít gonna happen. I look away.
Time for me to go. If I stand up, heís gonna be able to see how hard I am. What the fuck. Itís not going down. Not the way I feel right now.
I can feel his eyes on me. I take another quick peek. Yeah, heís still staring at me. Not boldly, just looking. Almost beseeching me. Asking me for something.
Whatever it is, the answer is NO.
I stand up and I see his eyes drop to my crotch, widen a little and come quickly back up to my face. Then he gives me that look again.
I walk out and donít look back.