I am a bad girl. I can’t stop wanting to fuck him every time I see him, which is why I have to look away every time he walks into the room. Even though every time I walk into any room anywhere, I look for him desperately because I want him to be here, now, and I want to feel a certain way. I want to feel my unstoppable lust like a train wreck until my crotch is crashing into his crotch, and things are on fire, and something has exploded, and there are people screaming and crying and gnashing their teeth while we are broadcast across Times Square on some oversized TV screen like an international crisis of utmost importance. This is the kind of thing that makes people wince and want to turn away, but they don’t because there’s something so fantastical about fatalistic self destruction. And that’s what he is for me: my own destruction. Not because of anything he says, and not because of anything he does. And who even knows if he’s even vaguely interested in sleeping with me. He surely doesn’t feel these flames of passion like the lighter flash to the wick of some pipe bomb. He likes, me sure, but it’s not like this for him. This is a one sided thing, this unhinging sensation of desire. And I am crumbling on the inside because of it. I am falling apart, great big chunks of hair are clumping out, my fingernails are broken and my eyes are puffy. I look terrible because of him, but his dick is my drug and I am addicted. I am constantly fiending. I am running around like an idiot, looking for him. Where is he. And how can I get him to love me. Even though he will ruin me – he has ruined me before, and he will do it again, not out of malice or bitterness but because that’s what he does. That’s how the world works. This is how things are, the way they will be: he ruins me. Constantly. And I let him do it, too. Because this is my sexually compulsive behavior. He is my vice. He is the blade of the knife that I am driving into my own back, but it’s him, isn’t it. It’s the moments when we’re lying naked on top of the sheets, and his sweat and my sweat on my lips. When he holds me like it means something to him – like it means anything to him at all! And I believe like a fool, like that orgasm he just gave me was the greatest gift a man could give a woman. Greater than diamonds. Greater than love. Greater than the two of us, and it felt so much like love. I believe it so much. And him? I don’t even know if he’s aware that love exists, but I go for it anyways. So that I can feel satiated in this small moments, with his arm on my hand and the soft words that he mutters carry so much weight. They mean nothing to him, but my heart is rapid as he says those soft things. I am believing them, like a fool, and he is the false prophet of my romantic disillusionment, and I am completely okay with that. I am holding on to him for right now, until he flutters out the door and I am left desperate and broken and embarrassed in this wretched city without him. I am a childless mother, and it is because of him. But that’s okay because I love him.