Ping!
I glanced at my phone to see who it was. I froze.
Of course.
Anatole.
iWatch vibrates. Ha! Thank you, Siri. You’re right this time. I did need to be reminded to breathe.
My breath came out in a whoosh. Did the pressure just change? Why does breathing feel weird? Did it just get warmer?
My hand made to dart to pick up the phone, but just as quickly pulled back, rethinking whether touching the red stove top was clever or not. I should ignore it. I hadn’t heard from Anatole in weeks and while the absence plagued my mind due to the lack of explanation, I refused to be the pathetic girl pining after a man who obviously didn’t respect her enough to entertain a conversation. Alas, that inextricable tether of attraction tugged at me, not to mention the curiosity brimming inside…
I will digress here and fill you in on the last few interactions:
After the wedding, I went on my vacation to Punta Cana with Peter Pan. From there, the holidays were fast upon me and broke through to the New Year. And before I knew it, January the 7th arrived! I couldn’t wait to move to Charleston. I was infatuated with the city and could barely keep the excitement down–can you choke from pure joy? With the impending date approaching, I reached out to Anatole to touch base. I waited patiently throughout the day. I even waited patiently for a few days, telling myself he was probably insanely busy with work and the aftermath of the holidays, etc. I text him a second time in case he simply saw my text while in the middle of something and then forgot about it.
Nothing...
Within a few weeks, out of the blue, Anatole texts me:
“Hello there…this is [Anatole]…new #…and I am so sorry for not texting in the past month but a lot of things happened so thought I would give you an update. Got divorced…which meant deleting all old accounts + phone I used when we texted.
But I’d love to see you again so let me know how you’re doing”
Selfie of Anatole operating something impressive that I have been asked not to disclose.
(This guy, btw…in case you needed a reminder)
Sideline: So many dots… I read it exactly as written and pause for the dots… I had the urge to ask if he was depressed and needed a safe space (but A. I’m an asshole, but only in the funny sense and B. that would’ve been epically poor timing for that joke…)…
Anatole and I got together a few times from that period until tonight, the experiences always turning out to be eventful, but would be tedious to recount: think drinks, hard fucks, sometimes food, sometimes cocaine, head in the car. Fun times.
Not so fun was when he berated me for being excited my company was giving me a laptop, hence I didn’t need to buy a new one. Apparently that was indicative that I have little to no respect for myself and need to start if I wanted to associate with him…
Honestly though, I couldn’t read him. But I also know that he couldn’t read me, accurately at least. I realized one night that he didn’t see me as I truly am when we had a conversation about me. He insisted my views and feelings about relationships, my desires, intentions, and philosophies couldn’t possibly be genuine—by the way, one of the most aggravating things is someone telling you how you think or feel.
I remember cutting him off and saying, “Do you want to know what my real problem is?”
He proceeds to cut me off and counters, “No, I’ll tell you what your problem is.” Thinks for several seconds. “I can’t think of anything… You’re kind of perfect…”
He caught a glimpse of me then. And after, I didn’t hear from him for weeks.
Until tonight.
I tried to ignore it, but fuck it. You never know when a bad decision might be really good… So he convinced me to come out—I don’t do the whole “play the game” or “play it cool.” I’m just me: honest, straightforward, doing and saying whatever it is I want at the time, and not doing anything I don’t.
I met him and the Aussie at this great little dive bar. I apologized to the Aussie for our last encounter.
Sideline: The first night I met the Aussie was within a few days of my birthday. I had sent Anatole a video, since I can’t take a selfie to save my life, of me in one of the corsets I just bought. After the introductions, Anatole went to take care of something and the Aussie let me know he saw my video—I couldn’t have cared less, just found it peculiar.
As the night went on—Uncork Charleston, The Darling Oyster Bar, King Street Cabaret—I could unequivocally determine the Aussie was drunkenly smitten with me. Frankly, if I didn’t have a thing for Anatole, I definitely would’ve considered him. And, despite what Anatole said to the contrary, I still had a sneaking suspicion about whether the prick tried to pawn me off on his friend at the end of the night because he asked me to get an Uber from the Aussie’s. Now I see it was perhaps that he wasn’t comfortable bringing someone with him to his new place with all of the renovations. Plus, there were other factors I learned of later, but will not disclose.
With that in mind and seeing that Anatole didn’t give a fuck, I asked Anatole for the Aussie’s number. Interested in hearing his story, I asked the Aussie if he’d like join me for a drink Friday evening and he said he’d love to. This did not last long as I made a polite excuse to leave within an hour. While I love talking about sex, that was the initial and only thing he talked about. If he wanted to turn me on, he should’ve talked about his work, life, or travel. Sapiosexual: I get off on the conversation, someone’s intelligence and banter. However, in this context, it was just boring and creepy.
I watched Anatole as he regaled everyone with something or another, chiming in when I could add a funny quip. It was fun, but the Aussie made me uncomfortable when he left. Unless I’m paranoid–I doubt it–there was a look of disgust when he looked at me, though I wasn’t sure whether I disgusted him personally or whether the fact that I liked Anatole did… There was certainly an undercurrent of something, but I don’t know when the switch flipped and brought it to the surface…
Soon after, Anatole walked me back to his new house. Well, to be correct, his wife’s new house due to the renovations currently in his and a lack of furniture…
We chatted for a bit, he pulled out some cocaine and I exposed him to numerology, which I’d recently starting looking into. I found the sexual tension unbearable, and lit the match, hoping for a flashfire. Stripping off our clothes, we fucked on the couch with him on top.
It turned me on how dominant he was. I liked how he talked dirty to me. I love the way his cock felt buried deep inside me.
Lost in the moment, I was surprised when he said, “Open your eyes. Look at me.” I obeyed. “Look at me. We like each other.”
With his hand around my throat, I stared up at him wantonly until he said, “This is such a good pussy. I forgot how tight this pussy is. This is Daddy’s pussy. Tell me this is just Daddy’s pussy. Tell me this is Daddy’s pussy.”
Sideline: I forget his exact words, but the intention I understood it was dominant and possessive. Territorial. In that moment at least, he wanted me to say I was just his.
By principle, I don’t lie (almost ever) and I don’t say things I don’t mean. What he asked made me nervous. I hesitated for a few moments, thinking before replying, “Yes, Daddy, it’s yours. It’s all yours.”
And in that moment, I meant it.
After the climax, I headed home, lost in uncomfortable thought. I wanted Anatole. But I also wanted for him to do whatever he had to do to get his head right: fuck around, go a little crazy. And if he wanted to spend time with me, he had my number. I had no desire to demand anything from him, but I hoped he would take the time to get to know me a little better.
Why did the Devil have to dance in such a deliciously seductive way? He disappears, stoking the desire to see him again. He reappears, beckoning with his fingers, taunting you with his lips, daring you with his eyes. But as soon as you make the first movement forward, he disappears again. So God damnably elusive. The only move then is to dance to your fever until he claims you.
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