"We don't necessarily know how to hear stories about any kind of violence, because it is hard to accept that violence is as simple as it is complicated, that you can love someone who hurts you, that you can stay with someone who hurts you, that you can be hurt by someone who loves you, that you can be hurt by a complete stranger, that you can be hurt in so many terrible, intimate ways."
― Roxane Gay, Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body
Tick...Tick...Tick...
We didn't share very much after our initial conversation leading up to actually getting together. I was really eager to meet her, and a bit nervous too. I must have checked the time on the motel nightstand against the silent display from my cellphone a hundred times, wondering if she would actually show up. A tiny part of me hoped for a reprieve, or that I would at least come to my senses. I find it challenging to formulate how desperately I wanted to fuck someone until my sights narrowed upon her. Only then, it wasn't just anyone I was going to creep with from an app called, 'Creep'.
Somehow it was easy for me to discern a few qualities about her from our limited conversations. She seemed smart, sexy, and more than I was capable of imagining. She wasn't blonde, brunette, nor a redhead. She wore dreads, and from what I could ascertain from the limited background view from her camera, from a few days ago, possibly well off.
"What should I call you?" I had asked her.
"Suzanne."
"Suzanne?" I repeated as if I had any other idea of what her name could or should be. If she would have said Goddess, it would have gone unquestioned.
"You?"
"Me?"
"What is your name? What should I call you?"
"Sinclaire." I lied.
"Sinclaire?"
"Yes." My heart skipped. I wondered if she knew Richard was actually my name. Sinclaire was my middle, and it was the first thing I could think of to provide right off the bat to add a layer to an anonymous world I had created.
She stepped closer to me, slowly unbuttoning her blouse. I steadied myself. I sought control of all of my faculties in hopes of garnering assurances. No miscommunication. If she was going to change her mind at any point, I would need to brace myself and maintain composure and wherewithal. Cognizant.
She was a married woman. Surprisingly confident in her sexuality. Very sensual. Seductive.
I was surprised when she had paused on her third button. She held a quizzical look upon her face. Something I did or failed to do must have concerned her that I was going to be the one to have a problem.
"Would you rather talk first?"
I had become heady. Delirious. Entirely driven by the need to be touched, fondled, and to consummate. It was unclear if I had asked or had I answered.
"No. Just fuck."
It was every bit of my intention to fuck her. To bend her, spread her, pound her until exhaustion. Instead, I helped her with the last three buttons on her shirt. Her chest heaved from the slight touch of my fingers tracing from her throat down between her dark perky breast. My touch. I marveled how her body reacted to my touch. How A simple caress caused her shallow breathing, the increased heat coming from her body, the soft moan that escaped from her full lips. She wanted me to touch her. Nothing on her body was off-limits. She was giving me free rein to seduce her with not only my hands but the tip of my nose and the occasional nip of her tits with my teeth.