It’s the beginning of September which feels both meaningless and full of potential. Potential for cool air, tight sweaters, rainy mornings (like today), and warm food. As for meaning, or lack thereof, I think I can say that the world still feels faint and ephemeral, as if I’m waiting for some uncertain future.
But I did know a girl named Autumn once, and while I crushed on her like a schoolboy, we never so much as held hands, let alone kissed. But two doors down from her, in our college dorm, was another girl with flaming red hair and a temper tinged with insecurity and sprinkled with temptation.
With us, sex was always a fight.
We kiss and bit and scratched, and she reminded me she had a boyfriend at home who would arrive at any moment to make an example of me. I’d pin her to the bed, push my hand into her tight pants and ask her why she was so wet if what we were doing was so wrong.
“I like the violence,” she told me one morning as we lay on the bed, her jeans unsnapped and her zipper barely down.
I worked my hand desperately between her body and the strength of her denim. I found her wet as always, and as I roughly struggled to get another finger inside her, I wondered if I did too.
When I managed to curl them up, pulling her pelvis towards me as my other hand closed around her neck, her eyes grew big, and her smile showed teeth.
I held her tightly, my fingers moving faster, listening to her moans for guidance. Each time I let her take a breath, the struggle lessened, and each time I touched her in just the right way, some small part of her let go.
When we finally kissed, it was with arms around my neck and sighs of yes and please as I thrust my fingers inside her and promised to fuck her until nightfall. She bit my lip gently, and as she began to clench around my fingers, she cried ever so sweetly.
I tasted her on my hand, licking each digit with adoration, and she laughed at me and blushed. When I buried my face in her burning hair, she reached down to find me hard against her thigh.
“I want to hurt you so badly,” she whispered, pressing her palm to me. “Maybe break you a little.”
“And I want to fuck your ass while you call your boyfriend.”
“We can’t all get what we want.”
We lay still for a long time, my cock throbbing and my fingers delectable as we stared up at her ceiling. I wondered, again, what we were doing and what it meant. I wondered if I should ask her to dinner and undress her instead of fumbling through clothes.
And most of all, I wondered what would happen if I said yes and let her do her worst.
On my way back to my room, I passed Autumn in her pajamas on the way back from the shower. She smiled at me and nodded shyly, and I pictured her soft lips and kind words.
I lay on my bed for a long time that morning, thinking about love and sex and pain and desire. I resisted getting off even when I thought of her ass and her nails. Even when I thought of her voice and her teeth.
Just before I got up, I wondered if maybe the violence I do to myself always outweighs the violence from others.
Twelve hours later, before bed, I could still taste her on my fingers.