Tears won’t stop staining my face long after I’m in my apartment, curled up in bed and begging for sleep.
My ass burns, my pussy aches, and my whole body hurts. But none of that compares to the shattering pain in my chest.
I told myself I’d cool down after a while, pick up my pieces and move on, but it’s been hours and no improvement is in sight.
In fact, I remember Kingsley’s words and I’m hit with a fresh wave of loathing directed at myself and him at the same time.
Why did I even have to get emotional after he fucked me like an animal right outside our daughter’s house?
What did I expect anyway?
Going into this, I knew full well he wouldn’t take it anywhere beyond the physical. I read an article once about how men and women release different brain chemicals after sex. While both release dopamine, women have excessive oxytocin that forcibly bonds them to the person they experience pleasure with. Which isn’t the same for men; their oxytocin’s mere purpose is the production of semen. Dopamine is the only prominent hormone for them, and it doesn’t matter who they get it from.
Considering I never actually formed a bond, or even allowed myself to get close to my previous partners, I thought myself immune to such phenomenon. But then again, they weren’t Kingsley.
They weren’t the man who flipped my world upside down in more ways than one.
And although I hoped to keep this whole relationship physical, I might have lost the battle way before I even realized it. Kingsley, however, is still firm in his convictions about what this whole thing is. He calls me a whore, after all, and although it’s only during sex and I don’t deny being turned on by it, maybe that’s all he thinks of me as.
But I guess I was blinded enough by his caring side to hope for more.
Now, I need to kill those hopes and whatever we have, because sooner or later, it’ll drain me. There will be extra baggage, self-loathing, and a new hope that will blossom at any of his gestures.
Like how he defended me in front of Gwen.
Irony is my least favorite bitch because she’s repeating the scenario from twenty-one years ago. I waited for him then, I searched for him, I wanted to preserve the connection we had during that one night. In the midst of the messy sex, drinking, and our sporadic conversations, I had more fun with him than I’d had in fourteen years.
He opened my eyes to a world I had no idea existed, and I was greedy for more. More thought-provoking debates, violent tendencies, and him.
I tried to find him even before I knew I was pregnant. That was out of mere selfishness as I entertained a pipe dream where I could ever belong in his world.
Eventually, I rose to his level. Eventually, I stood toe to toe with him, worked with him, sparred with him, and slept with him.
But that’s the furthest extent I’ll go to.
A rotten mouse from the ghetto will always, without a doubt, be eaten by the suburban cat.
And I guess I’m in the middle of that process now.
I want to tell myself that it’s okay, that I’ve survived worse, but instead of being relieved, more tears stream down my cheeks.
My phone lights up with a text and I stare at it through my blurry vision in the darkness.
He’s been calling nonstop since I left and sent a series of texts urging me to pick up the phone when I refused to answer.
The last one he sent just now is different.
Kingsley: At least drink water and tell me you’re all right.
My broken heart squeezes and I wish I could reach inside my chest and kill that jerk. The stupid organ that I thought I neutralized long ago is up and running and not even pretending to be on my side anymore.
One gentle text from the asshole and it’s beating like crazy.
The true man wants two things—danger and play. For that reason, he wants women as the most dangerous plaything.
Nietzsche’s words slip into my consciousness, translating everything I feel about this situation. I don’t want to be a plaything.
Not even Kingsley’s.
You know what? I’m not going to keep this bottled up inside.
Sitting up in bed, I sniffle and type.
Aspen: Remember that night twenty-one years ago?
His reply is immediate.
Kingsley: Of course. It was the night Gwen was conceived.
Aspen: Aside from that, what did it mean to you?
Kingsley: It was the first time I met you.
Aspen: No, that was the first time you met the old version of me. The bruised, traumatized but still trying to be strong version. The version who still longed to be accepted deep down in her naïve heart. She was the Aspen who lied about her age, got drunk for courage, and wanted you with all her little girl hormones. But she was broken by relatives, an early teen pregnancy, and holding her stillborn baby when she was barely fifteen.
Kingsley: Are you blaming me for not being there?
Aspen: No, I’m blaming myself for wanting you to be there. For searching for you and yearning for your company when you were nothing more than a stranger. I thought if I’d had you, I could’ve protected my child and had a healthier pregnancy. I fell into the Cinderella complex that I often chastised Callie about, and it was downright pathetic. Losing my baby gave me the slap in the face and wake-up call I needed badly. I burned everything I had of you, of the old Aspen and her naïve feelings and little dreams. So the real Aspen is the woman you met seven years ago in court, trying to rip you and your client a new one. That’s the only Aspen that exists, Kingsley. I refuse to spiral back into the old, pathetic Aspen.
Kingsley: I’m coming over.
Aspen: No, don’t.
Kingsley: This isn’t a conversation we should be having over texts.
Aspen: This is exactly how I want it, so if you have anything to say, do it this way.
I don’t think I could control myself, be strong enough, or have the right assertiveness to push him away if he were here in person.
He rattles me so much that it’s impossible to think straight while I’m with him.
Kingsley: First of all, the old Aspen wasn’t pathetic. She was a bit naïve, yes, young and lost, also yes. But she was a brave survivor, too, so I forbid you to talk shit about her. Second of all, there is no real Aspen. The woman I met seven years ago was as smart and hot as the devil, but she was empty, too. She’s not the woman who drives me fucking insane by merely existing.
A tingle starts in my chest and spreads all over my body, and I hate it. I hate how a few words from him are able to break me and tear me apart in such a short time.
Aspen: You’re saying that to get in my pants.
Kingsley: I can get in your pants without saying that, sweetheart.
Aspen: So I’m just your warm hole who’s good at spreading my legs?
Kingsley: You have warm holes. Plural. And I love when you spread your legs, but we both know you’re way more than that.
My fingers shake as I spill my bitter vulnerability on the keyboard.
Aspen: Maybe I don’t know.
Kingsley: You used to jump down my throat for sport and now you’re telling me you don’t know your worth?
Aspen: I used to and still do, by the way, jump down your throat because you’re an antagonistic asshole and I refuse to be stomped upon.
Kingsley: That translates to a strong bitch, I mean witch. You’re also more intelligent than anyone I know and so stubborn that I’m often, or more accurately, always, tempted to hate-fuck you.
Aspen: What if I say no?
Kingsley: We both know your cunt and now your ass are in a polyamorous relationship with my dick. So your “no” is out of mere spite.
Aspen: I don’t want to have sex anymore.
Kingsley: Why not?
Because I want to see if he only wants me for that. If, aside from that, I mean little to nothing in his grand agenda.
Instead of saying that, I type.
Aspen: I just don’t want to. Are you okay with that?
Kingsley: Depends on the duration. An hour? Two? Worse, a day?
Aspen: A month.
Kingsley: What type of celibacy drug are you fucking on? Did you pick up a religion or something? Highly not recommended, by the way. Not only do they shame your precious Nietzsche, but all religions are anti-hedonist and should burn in hell.
Aspen: Is that a no?
Kingsley: No, it’s a what the fuck, Aspen? Why the hell would you want us to stop fucking like the best animals that ever roamed the planet for a whole thirty days? Are you physically hurt?
I’m emotionally hurt, bruised, and stomped upon, and I need this to try to pick up my pieces, but I don’t tell him that.
Aspen: No, I’m not, but I still want this. What’s your reply?
Kingsley: This is fucking blasphemy and you know it. I have never gone a whole month without having sex.
Aspen: So is that a no?
Kingsley: No, it’s not a no. I have no fucking clue what game you’re playing. But fine, let’s do this shit. Only penetrative sex?
Aspen: All sex.
Kingsley: Are you out of your fucking mind? What type of screwed-up torture method is that?
Aspen: Take it or leave it.
I can almost see his narrowed eyes and flared nostrils. Kingsley isn’t the type of man who can be pressured into doing anything, let alone be forced out of his comfort zone, and this is a true test of whether he wants me or my body.
Kingsley: And if I refuse?
Aspen: Then we’re over. You can go relieve your sexual urges with your side pieces. Namely, Britney. And I’ll go find myself a new dick.
My whole body tightens as I hit Send. That’s the last scenario I want. The thought of him with damn Britney or any other woman hurts my chest to the point of physical pain coupled with nausea.
Kingsley: Your jealousy is fucking cute and there will be no other dicks in the picture unless you’re ready to add first-degree murder to my résumé of fucked up. The only dick you’ll have is mine after the damn thirty days, witch.
A smile lifts my lips as I read and reread the text.
He…agreed.
He really agreed.
I hug the phone to my chest, the giddiness inside me so similar to the old version of me.
The Aspen who had one tragedy after another but still held on to the black mask she wore that night.
