Thoroughly Wicked

• A compliment
• A story
• Why you follow me
• If you met me what would you do
• A cute message
• One thing you want to tell me
• One thing you want to know about me

(via tellmewhyifeelsoalone)

People holding hands.

People giving names. Pet names.

People hugging and kissing.

People making love, having sex, fucking. I’m one of those people. I stopped holding hands an eternity ago. I stopped hugging and kissing around the same time. I give names, though. Names like ‘baby’, ‘sweetheart’, ‘honey’. Names that will get me what I want. I think I made love once. Long after I’d had sex, years after I started fucking. But I made love. I guess I knew love. Not anymore. Now I’m a nameless ‘baby’ to a bunch of faceless men who claim to make love to me. That’s not true; they’re having sex and I’m fucking their brains out for my pleasure. I’m lying naked in someone’s bed right now. I’m exhausted, I’m panting and I smell like sweat and smoke. I love that smell. The guy, whoever he is, smokes a cigarette next to me. He’s idly flicking his lighter – zippo? – on and off. The flare of flame is fascinating. I wonder if it hurts.

“Give me the lighter,” I murmur. Rolling over takes energy I don’t have. “I want to see.”

He glances at me; he seems surprised to hear me speak. It’s true, the previous times I didn’t talk to him, not even to say ‘bye’ but I had a voice. He was the silent one in bed. That’s how I remember him.

“Why?”

His voice is gruff. I like it.

“I dunno,” I admit with a shrug. “I just wanna see.”

After another while staring at me, he hands it over. It’s warm, looks foreign in my hand. I flip it once, opening the latch but wait before waking the flame. I don’t know why. It feels like I should wait. He’s still looking at me. I wonder if he’ll stop me… The flame sparks up and it smells like gas. It’s a glorious smell. Slowly, I put my finger above fire. It’s warm, it doesn’t hurt yet.

A sigh, followed by, “What are you doing?”

“I’m checking,” I mumble. “Checking something…”

Now it hurts. A lot. He snatches the zippo away and I’m left staring at my reddening finger. It’s throbbing but I feel something. It’s beautiful. I’m broken, damaged, I have to ask a stupid question.

“Can you love me?”