One.
I was young when we first met, he never did anything special. Neurotic brown skin and eccentric black hair, added on to his well built earthy body, akin that glistened like polished with wax. He was the first to attempt my consummation but unnecessary trouble he had taken up. As I fell in love with his flesh and bones, he fell in love with my distorted soul. We pretended to ignore what we saw and went feeding what we hoped to devour. He failed. I succeeded and now I remember him through that silky pallet.
Two.
His flesh was tender and voluptuous, and I tried not to go too hard. He worked for a group of mechanics, they said they were building bridges. I wondered how mechanics would build bridges, but I really didn't care much. He walked into my shop on the corner, asking for a diner and his face, those deep brown eyes were inviting me to join. And so I did. I run a shop of food accessories and old bad paintings. Sometimes I make them and mostly I pick them off from few men I have known. We met twice at the diner, and thrice on his bed. He was a good listener and a lover. He 'was' and I remember how he tasted.
Three.
He was dead in places, and I was liberated. My hands reached out to him by mistake on the sidewalk once. He never let go of it since, never. Not even when I wanted him to. I have seen people liking bruises they have on their bodies. Bruises that turn black and blue because someone held them too tight. For few months I liked that too, but then it started to bleed. And I was enraged. I climbed on his chest one night, kissed him with all the passion and fire he put in me. Held his bright hair, pulled them back, unzipped him and rode him the last time. I rode him to my table, where I would finish it off and devour him. I don't remember how it tasted. I don't want to.
Four.
Walking down the street one afternoon, I see these couples on benches. Smiling and kissing, holding on to corners of each other's clothing and making a tight grip. Rushing and moving hands from back to waist to elbows grabbing and grasping, moving and resuming. I stood staring at these beings, when my eyes fell on him. He sat alone. I didn't tell him to join me, but we met at that bench every alternate afternoon and looked at people. I think he had, wants or found someone, because his sadness was approaching an ending. And when we talked we slipped our stories into each other. Soon, he found out too much and offered himself, as that approaching end never came and he wanted to disappear. I felt sad taking him away, but he pleaded so I fulfilled.
Five.
He was profane, I am profane. We wanted to love. He wanted to kiss. We tried, never succeeded. He gave up and I devoured.
Six.
I do not feel the pleasure in the act anymore, but it has become a fulfilling habit. Something that I cannot get myself to stop. I see gorgeous flesh and vile thoughts begin to occupy my mind. I tried resisting this time but he looked like a sister I once had. She was mean but loved me deeply, so I had too.
Seven.
Its just one more.
Eight.
One last time, I promise.
Nine.
One more after this and I'd write me my death note. I cannot continue, because I do not feel anything anymore.
Ten.
....
I was young when we first met, he never did anything special. Neurotic brown skin and eccentric black hair, added on to his well built earthy body, akin that glistened like polished with wax. He was the first to attempt my consummation but unnecessary trouble he had taken up. As I fell in love with his flesh and bones, he fell in love with my distorted soul. We pretended to ignore what we saw and went feeding what we hoped to devour. He failed. I succeeded and now I remember him through that silky pallet.
Two.
His flesh was tender and voluptuous, and I tried not to go too hard. He worked for a group of mechanics, they said they were building bridges. I wondered how mechanics would build bridges, but I really didn't care much. He walked into my shop on the corner, asking for a diner and his face, those deep brown eyes were inviting me to join. And so I did. I run a shop of food accessories and old bad paintings. Sometimes I make them and mostly I pick them off from few men I have known. We met twice at the diner, and thrice on his bed. He was a good listener and a lover. He 'was' and I remember how he tasted.
Three.
He was dead in places, and I was liberated. My hands reached out to him by mistake on the sidewalk once. He never let go of it since, never. Not even when I wanted him to. I have seen people liking bruises they have on their bodies. Bruises that turn black and blue because someone held them too tight. For few months I liked that too, but then it started to bleed. And I was enraged. I climbed on his chest one night, kissed him with all the passion and fire he put in me. Held his bright hair, pulled them back, unzipped him and rode him the last time. I rode him to my table, where I would finish it off and devour him. I don't remember how it tasted. I don't want to.
Four.
Walking down the street one afternoon, I see these couples on benches. Smiling and kissing, holding on to corners of each other's clothing and making a tight grip. Rushing and moving hands from back to waist to elbows grabbing and grasping, moving and resuming. I stood staring at these beings, when my eyes fell on him. He sat alone. I didn't tell him to join me, but we met at that bench every alternate afternoon and looked at people. I think he had, wants or found someone, because his sadness was approaching an ending. And when we talked we slipped our stories into each other. Soon, he found out too much and offered himself, as that approaching end never came and he wanted to disappear. I felt sad taking him away, but he pleaded so I fulfilled.
Five.
He was profane, I am profane. We wanted to love. He wanted to kiss. We tried, never succeeded. He gave up and I devoured.
Six.
I do not feel the pleasure in the act anymore, but it has become a fulfilling habit. Something that I cannot get myself to stop. I see gorgeous flesh and vile thoughts begin to occupy my mind. I tried resisting this time but he looked like a sister I once had. She was mean but loved me deeply, so I had too.
Seven.
Its just one more.
Eight.
One last time, I promise.
Nine.
One more after this and I'd write me my death note. I cannot continue, because I do not feel anything anymore.
Ten.
....
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