Page 1 of Monstrous Urges

1

TAYLOR

It’s not what it looks like.

My eyes peer at the dark road ahead of me. Streetlights flicker past, glimmering over the windshield. My hands tighten, digging my nails into the steering wheel, wrecking my new manicure.

It’s not what it looks like.

It’s the excuse that’s the most insulting part. Not the fact that twelve hours ago, I came back to my apartment in the middle of the workday to find my boyfriend, Steven, with his cock down some college girl’s throat. Not the fact that his bare ass—and hers—were planted on my brand-fucking-new Restoration Hardware white sofa. Not that fact that my dream apartment, with the perfect kitchen and the perfect views and the perfect décor, is now totally tainted.

No, it’s the gall of that fucking excuse.

It’s not what it looks like.

Imagine having the balls and the utter disrespect to say that to someone—to your girlfriend—in her own fucking home.

Tell me, Steven: exactly what could one possibly be doing with their dick in another girl’s mouth that isn’t getting a blowjob? What bad, X-rated Saturday Night Live sketch entails you “accidentally” probing the tonsils of a random Kappa Delta Phi sophomore pledge with your pathetically C-minus grade penis?

I glare at the road.

Except, the worst part isn’t actually the excuse.

The worst part is, I don’t really care.

I’m angry, yes, but it’s at the total lack of respect for my house and my new goddamn sofa. Not at the cheating.

I’m relieved.

Steven was never “the one”. We’ve been dating for close to seven months, and I can count the number of times we’ve slept together on less than five fingers.

Really.

I could tell myself that it’s because “demanding” barely scratches the surface of my workload as an attorney and managing name partner at the prestigious firm my two best friends and I built from scratch. I could say it’s because Steven’s job as a Philosophy Professor at NYU—though way less stressful than mine—is just as demanding on his time and focus.

But blaming our jobs is like blaming the dog for eating your homework.

It’s bullshit.

There’s a reason that seven months into a “relationship” with the man who just cheated on me, we’ve barely ever been intimate, I’ve never memorized his number, and I’m not totally sure what his parents’ names are.

Steven, like any relationship before him, is just checking off a box for me.

Bad-ass career with corner office? Check.

Gorgeous apartment with a claw-foot tub? Check.

Sexy-ass fucking car—a Porsche 911 Turbo S Cabriolet; cherry red, obviously? Check.

Appropriately handsome, but not too handsome, mild-mannered boyfriend with a career in academia? Check.

Go ahead and tattoo “live laugh love” on my fucking forehead right now and crown me Ms. Basic with a capital B Girl-Boss. Sponsored by Pinterest and some cheap rosé brand.

My mouth purses again. As I leave the Tuesday evening lights of New York behind me and wind my way up the wooded banks of the Hudson River, my gaze slips from the road ahead to the phone perched on its dashboard holder.

Instantly, the pissed-off thoughts about Steven and his TA disrespecting my couch fade away, quickly replaced by something…different.

Something twisted. Something dark. Something…

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