Friday night, January 29th.  Boredom deadens me.  I am in a haze, wading through the heavy sludge of shit that is my anxiety.  Such impedance.  But I see rays of sunshine poking through the clouds, or at least I imagine the rays (what’s the difference any ways?) that motivates me to get my ass to the Soho House to meet Ella and Michele.  The night is not dead I tell myself.  Have hope.  For too long now I have been down, I must seek my high even if I have to imagine it.  I will not be sad any longer.  It’s a choice and I stand by it, however hard I have to fight against the fear, the shame, the hopelessness. 

The night had been a blur of indifference, a dinner with Annie of mind-numbing talk about freezing meals-to-go and proper engagement lengths.  When I arrive at Soho, sans Annie who I ditched, I’m in my typical distracted, restless mentality, feeling unfulfilled, feening for something to feel good about while fighting to stave off my constant barrage of feeling not cool/smart/pretty/successful enough.  Not surprisingly, in such a fog, I am not “on point” socially, so when I run into two MVPs, I fumble.  Damn awkwardness killllllls.  (Fuck, how I hate and hate myself when I get nervous, when I whiff, when I forget to be on point.) 

Now spinning in a dizzying blitz of embarrassment, I force myself to pull it together.  For every ugly thread of damage I just spun, the type that somehow may get back to my boyfriend and threaten my standing, I know I have to make up for it in my social prowess in this circle tonight, even if it’s just a matter of proving to myself that I can be charismatic in fact.  Anger at myself is the best motivation.  So I slam my nerves into performance mode, it’s wicked high time to compete, Anais.  Kill it.  Dazzle, charm, work the table.  Be a delight.  Make them love and hate you at the same time. 

And like that, I am all graciousness.  Elegance.  Charm and poise old hat.  Like a Hollywood starlet of the Golden Age, I extend my hand to him from across the table to kiss it.  He does, our eyes lock, and bam my first spike of adrenalin fires.  I know he feels it, too; how eyes can communicate so explicitly is a fantastical mystery I will repeatedly be both baffled by and relishing in in the hours to come.  And like that, I can tell this was going to be a good night after all…..  My fire is lit, I am on, and he has assumed focal point number one.


His fingers brush my nipple through my shirt then gently pinch it.  Oh no I think, he can’t.  That’s off limits.  But it just feels so right, as though these nipples are for some organic reason his to touch anyways.  And at the very least, with each nerve ending his fingers excite, the boredom is ebbing away.  Yes I need this.  Boredom be gone.  I need to feel good for once!  Take more, please.  You can.  My full tit.  They’re just my tits after all, nothing wet.  I can’t resist, I mean why not let him give me pleasure, just for a little? 

It’s just he and I in the backseat of the uber, I am leaning on his lap, and now his hand has pulled down my shirt, exposing one breast.  He gently strokes my nipple and cups my breast.  I look down upon it, round and full in his hand, a white island glowing in the street lights.  He feels the heaviness of my tit and salivates at what he takes to be ripeness and readiness for the taking, like a plump juicy fruit at prime time to fall off of the vine.  The hunter has pursued, cornered, and is now ready for the killing.  And with the aggressive tauntness of my nipple, to him a welcoming invitation to suckle, he can no longer resist.

His mouth is warm and squishy, all tenderness.  The sound of his suckling saliva instantly gives an electric shock to my vagina; let the flow begin.  We are both now driven by a need to further fulfill: what’s the tits without the ass?  He wants me, all of me, and I cannot help but feen for his domination.  To give myself to him.  It’s so wrong, I know, yet so right for the same reasons it’s wrong.  Oh, this giving in.  Succumbing to someone I dislike so much in so many ways, I mean he doesn’t deserve me, at all, he’s beneath me, I am a taken woman already, I have made it clear I am not available, and yet he still fights!  Yes, I am succumbing to his fight, he is taking me down.  He is winning and having his way with me.

I am giving myself to him in part out of pity, for he has fought so long and hard for me, against my cruelty.  But I realize I also want this man, in a strange way, out of this pity.  I want to feel nasty and debased by someone who I have reamed a helpless, gross animal.  Poor thing, let me help you.  

That’s on one hand.  On another, he is sexy.  He is smart, witty, talented, successful.  Clever.  I know this, but I choose not to think about it.  After all those thoughts are grounds for guilt and I do not need them.  I am reeling on scandal alone, loving the feelings of liberation and rebelliousness.  This here is experience, passion, danger, the stuff of adventures and living fully fleshed out.

His hand has nuzzled itself between my legs.  His fingers toy with my panties, now gently, slowly parting them as though to say “it’s okay, I come in peace, I mean no harm…let me help.”  They are met with wetness; I detect a slight smirk, him acknowledging we both know he was right, that his fingers are here to help and can.

I resist a bit, but stop.  I should go easy on him.  Poor guy, he can’t keep his hands to himself, they are like a magnet drawn to my vagina.  And what’s a little contact?  It’s still just harmless I think.  Besides, between his tender kisses on my nipple and soft, gentle fondling of my body, he seems kind and loving.  He cares for me.  This is nice, this is rare.  I should savor it!  Live in the moment, as they all tell me to do.

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