o7 May 2011

A sigh of relief escaped my lips. I had managed to get my project finished and sent in just before the midnight deadline. I purred in satisfaction as I stretched, feeling the popping of my joints and the slow burn of pain in muscles that hadn't moved in hours. I reached out to turn off my dinosaur of a laptop only to stop and stare thoughtfully at my hand.

Three of my fingers had short nails, ripped almost to the quick, and the other two were longer, but just as jagged. For a moment, I wondered what happened before I could recall the previous night.

There were no words to the memory, only mindless growls and moans of pleasure. I dimly remembered the sound of cloth being ripped and something breaking as it fell. I kicked off my shoes and briefly felt the cool smoothness beneath my feet seconds before they left the hardwood floor. Strong arms supported me as I wrapped my legs around his waist, hating the barriers between us. Uncoiling my arms from around his neck, I looked into eyes of darkest blue and yanked at the collar of his shirt. A storm of clear buttons peppered the floor, but the sound was lost to me as hot lips captured my own.

The rest of the night passed in an angry, passionate haze. The only seconds of clarity were those of my nails breaking as I raked them down his bare back, the pleasure-pain of his teeth on my skin, and the fulfilling intrusion of my body. When I awoke, he was gone, as always. The first few times, I had been hurt, upset, and confused. Now, I just took it in stride. I had come to understand that I was just a means to an end for him, an outlet for emotions he never showed.

But I couldn't criticize him without criticizing myself. He was exactly the same thing for me. He was someone I could use to get rid of the loneliness, the need, confusion, stress, and anger. He was a tool. Nothing more.

A friend once asked if we were lovers. I told her no because there was certainly no love in our 'relationship', if you could call it that. It didn't stop me from wondering, though. I thought about a quote from one of my favorite movies. "Is that what love is? Using someone? Then maybe that's what hate is. Not being able to use someone." I was still thinking about it last night when someone knocked on the door.

Looking back on the night before, I smirked as I made my way to the kitchen. I decided I didn't really care what we were so long as whatever we had continued. I pulled out a bottle of Chardonnay, but hesitated when I reached for a glass. One or two? Deciding I could always come back for another one, I settled myself on the couch and filled my glass. I lifted the bittersweet drink to my lips, but before I could take a sip, there was a knock at the door.

I smiled.