He’s back in town for a few days. I had cut contact (don’t leave me again, baby). But I had a day of weakness, and it started the way all bad ideas start… “hey.”
He’s the most perverted person I know. And I hate that we’re compatible in that way. What’s worse is he’s actually a really nice guy who’s quite romantic. I hate that too.
When we fuck I always have the urge to tell him how disgusting he is. It’s so weird. I’ve never had those thoughts with anyone else before. But in a twisted way it’s because I find him safe. He accepts all of me- even my ugliness. That’s what I hate. That’s why I want to tell him he’s disgusting. Because it’s not him I’m really saying it to. I’m saying it to the parts of me he allows to creep to the surface. The deep, hidden parts I don’t show anyone, barely even myself. We fuck and I hate him. And he calls me baby. And I love it. And when we finish we cuddle, and I trace his tattoos with my fingers as we lay intertwined, and I feel his soft, smooth skin (how can skin be so soft?).
As the sun comes up, I roll out from under his arms and quietly whisper, “I’m making coffee, do you want one? Or would you rather sleep some more?” (he’s tired from his travelling). “Sleep some more,” he replies. “But don’t leave without waking me.”
“I won’t,” I say, knowing he needs that promise.