“I want to know the depths of your depravity.”
Turning my head, I looked at him. “I assure you, you do not.”
“I do.”
“Why?” I sighed. “Eventually it’s not even sexy. It’s just… ugly. Why would you want to see that ugliness?” The familiar certainty of profound, damning corruption clawed at me from underneath my sternum. “No one wants to see that.”
“But I do. I want you to tell me.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.” Maybe he didn’t know what he was asking. Maybe I was reading too much into his question. Admittedly, it sounded like something I would do. Yes, assigning meaning to something completely unintended was certainly something I would do.
Ah, the pitfalls of human communication.
“Does it need to make sense?” he asked.
“Yes! I need to know why.”
“Because I want to know you. The whole you.” He sounded so sincere, it made my heart ache.
“Surely not.”
He sighed, and it held a breath of anger. “Okay, why not?”
“Because,” I started, but not really knowing where I planned to end. “Because… women are supposed to be pretty. Vapid and empty. They’re not supposed to have… substance. They’re supposed to smile and sit in the background, waiting to be needed for something.” I turned my body away from him, even though I craved his touch. “I’m… too much. I’m too fucked up. I have too many wants, too many desires. I’m too much. I don’t want to be ugly.” I started to cry. “I’m so sorry. I’m…” Guttural sobs wracked through my body, and I curled into a tight little ball. Anything to be smaller, neater. Less… just, less. I wanted so much to be less.
His arm glided over my shoulder. The movement held no sexual overtone.
Just his hand, on my skin. He was warm, and that one touch grounded my body until I could cry no more. I shivered, and he pulled me back toward him, nestling me against his chest.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I’m not…” I wasn’t quite sure what I wasn’t, but I was sure that I was deficient in some way. Maybe a lot of ways. “Sorry, I’ll just… shut up now.”
“Shh,” he soothed. “No. I want to know the depths of your depravity.”
“But why?” I wanted to sound strong, but only succeeded at sounding exasperated. I was losing the energy to fight, though I was still certain that he didn’t understand what he was getting himself into. I was… Wrong. My sense of wrongness seeped through my mind.
“I want to know all of your desires, I want to know your dirty secrets. I want to know what you think about late at night that you’ve never told anyone else.”
“You can’t… possibly want that. I am too fucked up.” I turned to face him. “What if… what if you don’t like what you hear?”
“Always the chance I take.” He turned those kind hazel eyes to me. “But I think I will.”
“…Are you sure? Really sure?” My resolve was failing.
“Yes,” he said, but his voice was harder. “Now start talking, before I make you regret presuming to tell me what I do, or do not want.”
My stomach was suddenly in my throat. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry… I didn’t mean…” A new round of tears lined up at the corners of my eyes.
He ran his fingers through my hair. “I know. I know you just want to be a good girl. My good girl, right?’
I nodded. I really did want that. If good girls could harbor the kinds of thoughts I had, the kinds of fantasies that left me in a screaming, orgasmic heap. If I could be a good girl, I wanted to be his good girl.
“Now, tell me the depths of your depravity.”
“It’s hard,” I said, but the argument was gone.
“I know.”
I paused. “But I want to tell you.”
“I know,” he repeated, as if he had known this from the beginning. Hell, maybe he had. “Why do you want to tell me?”
I shivered, but this time it had nothing to do with being cold. “I want you… to see. Please, I want to be seen. I am, so much. So much stuff. I want to lay myself out for you, raw. I want you to touch those raw parts with your salty fingers and make me scream for you. Make me beg and cry. I want to give you the power to do that.”
He made a sound low in his throat. “Such a good girl. I’m listening.”
Photo by Jonathan Borba on Unsplash