He Is The Demon Inside Me

We are birds of a feather, which is probably why we sleep together. Him, with those consistently unreplied to text messages, and me, with my lackadaisical attitude towards fucking. We’re sitting in my bedroom at 2pm, me kicked back and ingesting his self absorbed monologue while waiting for him to get dressed so we can go get something to eat. I know that it’s early for him, but I don’t care, because it’s late for me. I’m moonlighting as a normal person today, after spending the whole night being up and doing drugs, but he doesn’t need to know that.

He’s talking to me about women, or, more specifically, his women and his interactions with them. I find it to be interesting, mostly because it’s such a plain text reader on his somewhat complicated psychology, although when read through the lens of a life filled with violence and every typical crime that men like him commit, it all makes sense. I imagine that there are women out there who love fucking him and are dying to get know him, but I’m not one of those women. I’m a woman who loves fucking him and would kind of prefer to not know him because I get the general picture. I understand what’s going on here. I get it. I know enough of who he is to know that the minutiae of his personality and his personal history are not going to change what’s happening right now. Knowing why he is the person that he is today isn’t going to change who he is, and it’s not going to change what will happen in the future. Understanding why he does the things he does and why he has chosen the life he has chosen will not ease the pain for me in any way. He is a monster, but I choose to fuck him, so I pay the price accordingly.

“Sometimes I’m just bad for a woman. And I know it. I mean, It’s not that I don’t care, but if I’m ruining my life I know to cut it off,” he says after concluding a vignette about dating the sister of someone around town. It’s an interesting sentiment, mostly because I can feel him ruining my life every time we fuck, but for some reason he’s not ruining me enough to know to stay away. He’s not ruining me enough for me to stop him from walking through my life. I don’t know why I do this, but I do.

I shouldn’t fuck him. I know this. Not just because he’s a bad influence, but people have seen us together. People have seen us leave the bar together. People know that I fuck him, and for some reason I feel like I have a black mark hanging over my head. I’m like package meat that has been stamped as contaminated. I have spoiled. I am rotten. I am no good for human consumption. I can’t fuck other men after I fuck him, because he ruins me for other men. Not just because he fucks me into such blissful oblivion, but because the person that I am becoming whenever I’m around him is not the kind of woman that just any man can handle. It’s not that my sexual tastes and proclivities have become so esoteric due to his championship fucking skills that sex with mere mortals is now impossible. No, it’s even more than that. He lets me this person that no other man lets me be. He lets me be the woman that I have always been on the inside, but he lets me wear her on the outside. He is a truly free person, and when I’m with him, I’m free, too. But who says freedom is a good thing? No – that’s not what I mean. Freedom is a good thing. But who says that we’re using our freedom for good? Because we’re not. We are truly free people, and we use our freedom to fuck and to fuck and to fuck and to fuck. That’s it. We don’t use our freedom to free other people or to cure cancer or to bring beauty into the world. We use our freedom to fuck as many pretty people as we possibly can, and when we are free together, we fuck each other. We abuse our freedom, and we abuse each other.

He lets me be the bad person that I have always wanted to be, and he cheers me on while I do it. He cheers me on so that he can justify his own bad behavior, and we corroborate each other’s bad behavior with just more of the same. He is the only man that tells me that it’s okay for me to be the woman who fucks ruthlessly through this city. The only one. He is the only one who smiles and watches on while he does it, too. And we call it feminism, or sex positivity, or sex radicalism, or some other term for sexual enlightenment, but we might be wrong. We might just be terrible people who fuck without consequence, but we’re still smart enough to rationalize that behavior within the language of philosophical, post-modern amorality.

We are similar, and the love stories he tells do not star women like me. I sleep with him, and he never texts me back, so I wonder what the point is. I wonder if he likes sex, because the sadness with which he cums seems so all consuming. I have seen it in his eyes, but I have not spoken of it, because I want nothing to do with the sadness inside him. He makes me cum a lot, and he tells me that he likes fucking me, and I’m not sure if I believe him when he tells me I’m good at sex. Mostly because I know that I’m good at sex, but I wonder what he wants from me. I have nothing to give to him at this point in time, and I wonder what kind of weak, half man I will crawl into after this monster is gone in order to alleviate the pain of getting fucked by the devil. And enjoying every moment of it.