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I struggled in Tony’s grasp as I entered the main room, and there were about 20 black men there, in all stages of dress and inebriation. “Hey, you assholes had better done better than the last one!” someone yelled, “That bitch was bleeding when we opened her up!”Tony yelled back, “Not a chance!”, and to show what he meant, he pulled me closer, then lifted my arm as high as he could, then used his free hand to reach under my skirt and push his finger into me, fully! My mouth opened and I shrieked as I felt the penetration, over as quickly as it started. He held out his finger to show the room I was not on my period. A few cheers went up, and mostly jeers followed as I struggled in Tony’s grasp. “Here! Use these!” a voice shouted, and a pair of handcuff sailed through the air. “I got these from the bitch cop who tried to arrest me!” the voice said, the room filling with laughter. Tony caught them, fastening them around my wrists in front of me. I started to beg him to let me. My hand is around your throat, not to choke, but to hold you steady during each deep thrust. My palm runs along your spine, up and down, nails dragging along that beautiful pale canvas. I've created an atlas you will conceal with clothes later on; a living map that tells of our secret time here. Part of me wants to say how much I've missed and needed you. That I almost hate you for leaving but hate myself more for not doing anything to stop you.There is so much to say that we never form words for and pass along. In that sense, you and I are one and the same. We pull others so very close to us without warning them of the cold and dark things in us that will push them away, possibly hurt them beyond consolation. You and I have always communicated best together in places like this. Behind a locked door, bodies locked together on your small bed. In the claustrophobic confines of a parked car late at night, merged. In the steamy womb of a shower where, as everyone else is still sleeping.
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