It was always different with you, from that very first time I laid eyes on you and you looked not at my cleavage, brazenly displayed, and not at my curves, clearly defined through that short slutty dress, but into my eyes. And even while my body was crying out to be noticed, to be acknowledged, I felt a stirring in some unfamiliar place as your glistening hazel eyes bore into mine, icy blue. Not only a tug deep in my loins, but a tug also, deep in my heart. A door creaking open within me, a candlelight flickering in the shadows that had gathered there, layered thick and heavy, ever since I’d closed that part of me off to the world.
It was unsafe, I knew, to feel anything there. I slammed that door shut and I made you my challenge. I must conquer you. I must have you. I must make you need me, want me, desire me more than anything else in the whole of existence if only for a moment in time. Never before has a man resisted me so. Not in the years of trawling the clubs, gyrating, performing, displaying myself, eventually going home with someone, anyone, to be claimed, to be owned. Not in the years prior to that when, too young to gain entry to the nightclubs, I’d offered myself to any man who’d shown interest – rewarding them for wanting me with a hand job, a blow job, or even a quickie – in the bushes, or in the back of his car, or in the supply cupboard at school. Taking affection in any twisted form I could get it. Lapping it up.
You didn’t respond to my grinding and groping. You held me close instead and slow danced with me. You didn’t respond to my suggestive remarks, but whispered in my ear how beautiful I was, how perfect. You wanted to talk. You wanted to know me. You opened old wounds and you tended them so carefully, so lovingly as salty tears stung my eyes in that moonlit room. Yet still that little part of me needed to win. I knew what men wanted, I knew what they craved. If you didn’t want me there must be something wrong with me? Rejection, all over again. My hand slipped lower, seeking you, needing to make you want me. Your hand pulled my wrist and gently moved it to your chest.
“Don’t you want me?” I asked, my lips numb from your kisses, my body buzzing from rubbing against you as we lay entwined on that couch. “Don’t you want to fuck me?”
“No,” you answered, a lance through my heart, “I don’t want to fuck you. I want to dance with you, play with you, show you the world. I want to know you the woman and you the girl. I want to love you and caress you and shape my whole life around you. I want to mend your heart and wrap it carefully in mine. I want to make you my princess and love you and prove to you my devotion, until I am worthy, until I deserve the honour of laying with you. I want to erase from your memory every man who laid hands on you so disrespectfully. Even then I don’t want to fuck you. I want to worship you. I want to know every part of you inside and out. I want to explore you and please you and take you to heaven with every kiss, every touch. I want to join with you in a union so sweet we will transcend this world, and live in our own. You are my Goddess and I want to treat you as such.”
Your eyes shone truth. Your words, a whisper, a magic key. You opened my heart as the stars danced above and something inside me melted. I allowed myself to need you then, with all of my being. I knew then I would never need anyone else. My saviour.