"Just do it. Now. Whatever you want." I've finally gone over the deep end, I think as I hear a condom wrapper being ripped open behind me. After some months of dickering, I've made good on a sad fantasy I've been distracting myself with since D stopped speaking to me. It's not about pleasure or comfort or desire. It's about contempt, for myself, and for any man stupid enough to want me. Contempt feels like relief. The man rips my panties down and goes about his nasty, brutish, and short business. He mutters filthy, stupid nothings into my ear with hot breath. I squeeze my eyes shut, concentrate on D. With what different, breathtaking force he once would throw me against a wall, pull up my skirt. When all my need became too much for him, when he needed to just shut me up. How better everything was between us afterward. It's over in three minutes. In five I'm back out on the street, my guts aching and my BlackBerry in a trembling hand. I don't know what to do.
