Violent Devotion

I.

The word of love is a mystery that sneaks up on most. Worship can be better understood. I found you when hope had died ugly, trembling with fear. We struggled for what felt like an eternity, trying to decide who would win. It was a very terrible thing, and I regret ever calling it affection, the blood that dripped from our wounds tasted bitter. I want to be kind, sweet, harmless. I want to put this rage away, inside a book of fairy tales no one reads anymore. I want to strip this of all the horror we cultivated, dress it up like a thing of beauty. It’s no use, it’s deformed, a fruit of gore, rotten. 

I think about all the things I told you, the lies I built like a castle, with faulty structure, just waiting for the right time to come down. I remember biology class, my high school self struggling to stay still, a story of spiders on the whiteboard. Their cannibalism was a tale of terror, detached, no emotions involved. It’s not how we work, strange humans filled to the brim with feelings.

I cry as I eat you.

II.

I want to try on your skin, pull it out slowly like a sticker from a beloved notebook. Wear it like a form fitting jumpsuit, glue it to myself so you can’t have it back. Move with your arms and your legs, speak with your mouth, summoned words going up from the skin of your throat, your neck but my will. It would be fun, I promise. You’ll be nothing but exposed red muscles, veins throughout your body, a living and breathing science book image. But I’ll take care of you like that. I’ll put you inside a box, closed tight so no one can see you, I’ll give you food everyday through an opening on the wood, you’ll be warm and cozy while I walk around.

I’ll tear your life to pieces, self destructive and unkind. Your job will be nothing but a distant memory, all the love in your life left traumatized. I’ll use all your knives until they are blunt, cutting chunks of your plans, eating them raw. Is this how we end? My eyes watching through your eyelids? I’ve learned the way you move, your tics and repetitions, the rise and fall of your voice, the tone you use when you want something. I’ve practiced, every night. Twisting my sounds to become yours. I move my hands while I talk too, I make the same jokes you do. This is a form of admiration, I hope you are flattered. You are a debt that is owed, and I’m the collector. I take you with greed, anxious, wanting. 

I dislike you just as much as I desire you, with all of me.

I write you in my memories, the main character in a film, the world revolving around you, the universe bending to your will. I feel like Bluebeard, keeping you locked inside, my puppet, my prey. I like it, I play the part well. I hang the people you love from the ceiling with joy, imagining your face when you see your life cut in two. I picture you in their place, hungry and lonely, malleable, clay ready to be molded into something else. 

You’ll cry of course, feeling trapped in the warmth I wrapped around you, it’s how it always goes. But I’m not moved by tears, never have been. I just watch your hope go, running away while your body stays.

III.

I’m the monstrous fisherman that captures the mermaid, unwilling to give up my possessions. I wrap you in my net, mouth watering with greed, dissect you like a fish, bleeding on the wood of my boat. Isn’t it funny, how I don’t hesitate? I’d do it again, just for you. 

I take stock of you, like cattle. Count all your fingers and your toes, think about which one I’ll cut first. It horrifies you, of course. But this is a return to nature. I kill you as I love you, make you my favorite meal. I scoop out your insides and turn your corpse into a home, your flesh my roof. 

I must be the one to do this.

You could never stomach me.

The Coffee Shop

Frank was not looking for a real relationship. Whenever things reached that stage with someone he was dating, he found an excuse to bolt. He feigned melancholy for a few days, but often – too often actually – had to endure the wrath of his exes and their friends about his dispassion, his heartlessness, that he just used people and walked away, that he should have said something at the beginning, that he was an asshole. 

Walking to his car one evening, he was approached by two men. “We’re trying to find a drug store,” one said. “Do you know where the nearest one is?”

As Frank turned to point, the men grabbed him and threw him to the ground. They started kicking him, and one said, “This is for our sister Rachel, you piece of shit? You know, the one you gave herpes to, then dumped!”

Frank, covering up to avoid their kicks, said, “Who cares? Everyone has herpes, haven’t you heard? Did you want a drug store to re-up her acyclovir?”

This enraged the brothers, and they beat him so badly he couldn’t stand up. They left, and after about twenty minutes, someone saw him lying on the pavement, helped him up, and called the police. When the officers arrived, Frank explained, unconvincingly, that it was an argument about a woman, no big deal, no police necessary. The cops looked at him like he was crazy, helped him into his car, and laughed as they walked away. 

After a few weeks, he met Sharon in line at the coffee shop. She turned to him and made a joke about the man in front of them who just ordered a half-caf, half-decaf, almond milk latte with several more instructions about proportions and foam. She had a rough edge to her, a foul-mouthed irreverence that Frank found attractive, even sexy. She called the almond milk latte guy a “douchebag,” and the woman he was with an “under-fucked cow.” Frank felt himself becoming shy in her presence. She could be overbearing and a little intimidating, but she treated him like a kindred spirit, as if they shared secrets, and this drew him in and kept him interested. 

One morning as Frank walked into the coffee shop, Sharon called to him and asked him to stand with her in line. “You don’t have any place to be, right?” she said. “You wanna sit with me for a bit?” 

They made small talk and he learned she had been a model and a dancer, and now worked as the office manager for a big downtown law firm. “I think all the partners are evil,” she said at one point. “But my job is pretty easy, and the pay’s good. I think all employment is exploitive to one degree or another, so I’d just as soon work for scum, and feel justified in fucking off as much as possible. Without drawing any undue attention, of course.” Frank never heard anybody make this argument before, and was intrigued. When he talked about his work managing a collection of Beatles memorabilia for a wealthy eccentric, a job he basically enjoyed, he thought he sounded childish and small in the glare of Sharon’s larger-than-life bluster and detachment. 

Frank was charmed by their conversation, and after she touched his arm for the second time making a point, he blurted out, “You wanna go out some time?”

“Sure,” she said with a big smile that seemed to light up her face. “I like to work for bastards with money, but I like to fuck guys who do something fun and interesting.” Frank couldn’t tell if she was mocking him.

“Wow!” he said. “That was zero to sixty in two-point-four seconds. I was thinking dinner or a movie, but okay. What night is good for you?”

“How about right now? Let’s go back to my place and see what happens.” She took his hand and put his middle finger in her mouth. “This is your lucky day,” she said. “There’s a sucker born every minute, but a swallower is hard to find.”

“Did you just make that up, or do you say that to all the guys?” 

They put on their coats, got in Frank’s car and drove to Sharon’s house in what seemed like a blurry minute and a half. The whole ride, Sharon kept trying to unbutton Frank’s shirt or unzip his pants, and he half-heartedly resisted. She licked his ear and kissed him on the cheek. “I like you Frank. You seem like a good guy. But I want to get seriously fucked. It’s been too long.” 

Frank almost said, “That makes two of us,” but thought better of it. Instead, trying to be funny, he said, “Well, I’m glad I could help you out, ma’am.” What a geek, he thought. 

Then Sharon turned wistful, which surprised Frank. “Look,” she said, “I’ve been with a lot of guys. Psychos, narcissists, clingy little mama’s boys, commitment-phobes, … I even married two of ’em. Once divorced, once widowed, and I’m not going for strike three!”

“I wasn’t planning to propose,” Frank said with a smile.

“Good!” Sharon shot back. “I’ve had my eye on you for a while, and I picked you out for two reasons. One, you’re not too hard on the eyes, which doesn’t hurt. And two, I’ve seen you in the coffee shop, the way you are with the baristas and the other customers. Considerate, soft-spoken. Not some bellowing bro’ who thinks time stops when he enters the room. That kind of behavior shows up in the bedroom too, which works just fine for me.” Frank nodded as he took the compliment, aware that the beating he took a few weeks ago had humbled him to some extent. 

A smile slowly spread across Sharon’s face. “Just remember, I’m driving this bus, Frank. And you’re lucky to be along for the ride.”  

“I know, I know” said Frank. “I have to say this all comes as a little bit of a surprise. I pretty sure you’re out of my league.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Sharon said and rolled her eyes. “You men and your leagues. Wait a minute. You’re not into fantasy football too, are you? Never mind, don’t answer that.” 

They started making out as soon as they were inside the door, and in the standard cliché of Hollywood rom-coms, undressed each other as they made their way to the bedroom, leaving clothes strewn everywhere. She had a dancer’s body: flat stomach, muscular thighs, small breasts with perfect nipples. Frank caught a glance of his naked self in the mirror, and decided he looked okay, if a little overweight. His cock was erect, and he thought there’s always something odd about how a man presents when aroused. Vulnerable, easily manipulated, a little dim. Women, by contrast, had hard nipples and wet pussies. So strong and dignified by comparison. 

“Admiring yourself, Frank?” Sharon said, catching him looking in the mirror. “C’mon, let me do some admiring.” She stroked his cock with one hand, then put her other hand on his chest and pushed him back onto the bed. She kneeled on the floor at the foot of the bed and took him into her mouth. Frank closed his eyes and let his head roll back. As she massaged his balls, Frank had a moment of panic thinking he might come too fast. Sharon must have sensed it too, because she jumped up on the bed, put her arms around Frank’s neck, and flipped him over so he was on top. “Not so fast, my horny friend,” she said, “It’s my turn.” She put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him down until his head was between her legs. He started licking her clit then slid a finger up inside her when he felt her hand on his head. “Don’t fall in love with me, Frank. I don’t need the aggravation. And I’m certainly not going to fall in love with you.” In that moment, Frank realized that Sharon could coax his erection or kill it, whatever she wanted, in seconds. Sharon must have seen the deflated look in his eyes. “That’s the last time I’ll bust your balls, Frank. I need you to stay hard for me.”

They became regular fuck buddies, meeting once a month, sometimes more, initiated unpredictably by one or the other of them, for what they jokingly referred to as S.O.D. – Sex On Demand. Over time, they got increasingly adventurous in bed: toys, restraints, candle wax, anal, both hers and his. In Frank’s mind, this was a real, live relationship, and it wasn’t. Their arrangement was as inscrutable as Sharon was. As unrestrained as she could be, she was also hard to read. Whenever Frank was with her, he often couldn’t tell if she was angry, amused, melancholy, pensive, or a million miles away. One thing he did know, the times he cuddled with Sharon as they shared a post-coital sexual haze were some of the best moments of his life. Was he falling in love? He wasn’t sure he even knew what that meant. 

Frank’s phone buzzed. It was a text from Sharon that said, “S.O.D. 7:30?” He responded with a heart emoji, followed by an eggplant emoji. He thought for a second, then added another heart emoji and hit send.

Fake Popsicle Widow

After Robbie died, Brenda would tell anyone within earshot about the time the two of them had split a double popsicle. As if it had made them married-by-sugar. She wanted attention for her connection with the dead kid, so she pretended to be a popsicle widow. She held a single wooden stick at his memorial service, to symbolize their fake true love. Ten years old and already a drama queen.

Robbie and I once traded candy. But I never claimed that he and I “gave each other chocolates.” While technically true, that wouldn’t have been an accurate description. I didn’t know Robbie and I wasn’t going to pretend otherwise, for clout. That’s gross and exploitative, Brenda. 

As we got older, Brenda continued to court the publicity of grief. She’d show up to your funeral with perfect makeup, only to smudge it with crocodile tears. But just enough to look Sad and Hot. Not enough to look genuinely messy. True grief is ugly; Brenda was too vain to even fake it, let alone feel it.

The sound of Brenda’s neck snapping reminded me of broken popsicle sticks. It was the closest I’ve ever felt to anyone. Brenda and I had a genuine bond. For about a minute.

But still, at her funeral, I didn’t show emotion. We weren’t friends, and I didn’t want to lie with my eyes. That’s Brenda’s thing, and I’m more moral than she was. Rest in obscurity, you narcissist.