I had a dream that you fucked me last night. So hard I could feel it in my whole body. The most amazing thing was that you could touch me and you were safe. That made it okay. You groaned above me and I watched your muscles quiver and flex, your face scrunched up, you not looking me in the eye. I still didn’t care. It was you inside me and I loved that. So I fucked you back.
I made you feel my body like you were making me feel yours. I was so close to you that every breath you took pressed my body into the mattress and the hair on your chest was rough against my skin. My hips were grinding against you and my legs were twisted with yours as I tried to touch everything with my thighs and calves and feet. You wouldn’t let my hands roam, so I laced my small, smooth fingers with your long calloused ones. You never kissed me.
I don’t mind, though. I know our dreams are linked somehow and I love it when I dream of you, even if it’s not love that you feel for me. I want you to use me if you have to, to fight off your nightmares. Don’t look for other women. Don’t think of Jean. Use me. Because I love you. Someday, I hope you’ll love me back.
You looked so defeated when you came back, your face weary and drawn. It had been two years and I could control my murderous skin. What could I do to cushion your jaded life? I loved you. So I went to your room once I had gathered the courage. You were seated on your bed, bent over like an old man, head in your hands, so sad and tired. I sat beside you and placed my hand on your leg. Somehow, you knew what I was offering and you took it. I wanted you to bury your anguish and rage in me because I wanted you bound to me by your guilt for fucking a little girl. I just wanted you.
Oh, Jesus you breathed when you entered me. I don’t know why. What we were doing wasn’t anything beautiful. It was about sweat and pain and running away from everything ugly in our lives. I admit I was running away, too, from the voices in my head, from my loneliness. No one but you has touched me during those two years you were gone. No one has trusted me but you and that only makes me love you more. That makes the long finger-shaped bruises that purple my pearl-colored skin acceptable.
That first time was torture in so many ways. My body hurt because yours was frantic and demanding. I think you were desperate, too. My heart hurt because you didn’t feel for me what I felt for you. You kept your eyes shut, never looking at my face, just like in the dream. Still you never kissed me--that’s what I was desperate for.
When you finished with me, I lay on your bed confused by the mixture of feelings in my mind and body. I loved you more. I was scared I wouldn’t be able to walk right tomorrow and someone would know. I felt like I was floating and drowning at the same time. I didn’t know if I should go or stay. You answered that question for me when you got up and went into the bathroom and shut the door. The lock flipped shut and I could hear you leaning heavily against the door, wondering what you had just done. I dressed myself as well as I could, ignoring the ache, and I left your room just as the shower started. It made me feel better to think that maybe you waited for a moment because you didn’t want to wash me away so quickly.
I didn’t take a shower right away. I curled up in my sheets and tried to sleep, but all I could see was you above me, eyes closed, not looking. I began to cry when I thought you might be picturing someone else. That was when I decided to bathe.
When Ororo came to wake me up the next morning, she didn’t seem to notice anything different about me. The day was no different than any other except that I knew that you and I were now a twisted sort of “us.”
You must have run away again because I didn’t see you for nearly a month. When I did, it was because you came to me. I hadn’t given up on you, but my faith was severely shaken. And then you were there, not expecting anything from me, only asking. Hoping. Praying? I let you have me again. Your hands were frenzied as you removed my clothes and yours. I thought it was strange that you wouldn’t let me touch you, but it didn’t really matter. You made me hurt through my whole body again, your face buried in beneath my chin this time. And when it was over, you just lay there beside me, staring up at the ceiling. Then, without a word, you got up and dressed yourself and left. I stayed where I was for the rest of the night.
Running seemed to have lost it’s appeal because you came to me every night from then on. Except for Sundays. Maybe you thought that was the only day that God was really paying attention. When you did come, you had to try harder to make me grind my teeth and squeeze the blood out of your fingers. You had to make more bruises on me to make up for the ones you wanted for yourself.
How many months did this go on? I don’t know. I only know that I didn’t want it to stop because that meant you were still bound to me and no one else. Use me, my silent plea that only you could hear. Use me. And yet I love you still falls on deaf ears.
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