Page 24 of Morsel

I swallow a lump in my throat. I know it’s more complicated than sexual desire. Mona is probably comfortable answering questions like this because she’s constantly interrogated about her art, but I haven’t been questioned like this since the last time I spoke with a therapist, and even back then, I didn’t like answering those questions.

“Why do you care?” I mumble.

“Because I’m interested in you, love. The real you.” She leans forward. “You inspire me.”

My head fills with hopeful ideas, and that dissolves the humiliation.

Her art. She means her art. The contract we signed. Her next project is about cannibalism.

Even still, someone may care about me for once. Me, the little boy who was left alone.

The cannibal fantasizer. The loner. Me.

“You’re not going to psychoanalyze my answer?” I ask.

“Why would I?”

Her tone is so matter-of-fact my chest swells. She doesn’t want to fix me then. She doesn’t want to try and change my sexuality. She’s actually interested in me.

I try to find the words and give her the answer she deserves. My mouth fills with sand, and that frustration seeps to the surface.

For the first time in my life, someone wants to know more about the real me, and I clam up like this?

“I don’t know,” I finally say.

“Try.” She pets my arm. “Is it the power? Perhaps the forbidden nature of it? The dominance?”

All of it, I think. I’m not sure if that’s true, but it feels right though. Dominance, like conquering prey. Forbidden, like a secret I can keep to myself. Power, the act of knowing that she can never leave me again because she’ll be inside of me. I’ll always have control of her.

The camera shutter clicks, knocking me back to the present.

I bare my teeth at her. “I wasn’t ready.”

“That’s the beauty of art.” She pinches my cheek. “The best art is when the subjects aren’t expecting to be captured.”

My upper lip curls. Why does that response irk me? Is it the “captured” part? Is it because she’s treating me like her prey?

“Here,” she says. She waves for me to follow her. “Let’s do a hands-on study.”

I let the anger go for now, and I don’t give myself time to think. Mona’s hips sway into the kitchen, and she flips on the lights, comfortable in my space. The electricity hums from the fluorescent strips in the ceiling. Mona slides a hand across the countertop and moves a few utensils out of the way. She sets up the camera on the opposite side, then connects a wireless remote to it.

She wants to take pictures of us right now?

She climbs onto the empty countertop. Her dress hikes up around her hips, exposing her bare ass. I was right; she’s not wearing any panties. I salivate over those pink pussy lips speckled with coarse hairs, imagining the taste of her flesh. Tangy. Sweet. Decadent. She crawls along the counter and looks over her shoulder at me seductively, before she finally flips over and lies down. Like she’s been captured.

I snap my teeth shut. She bites her lip.

“Fuck me like I’m your meat,” she moans.

Those words enter through my bloodstream, and my dick grows to its full potential. A sex worker can say the same words, and it irritates me to no end. With Mona, everything is different. There may be red flags everywhere, and a camera ready to snap your picture, but when a woman like Mona tells you to fuck her like she’s your meat, you fucking do it.

Besides, she’s interested in the real me. Why shouldn’t I show her a peek of who I am inside?

I lean over the counter, kiss her neck, and suck in her scent. The faint odor of candied salt fills my nostrils. I pull down the strap of her dress.

“Tell me how you’d do it,” she breathes.

I lick her collarbone. Sweat beads on my forehead, the tension of nerves and desire fighting inside of me. I want her to want me, and I don’t want to mess this up. I don’t want her to leave me.

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