Page 8 of Morsel

As the orgasm subsides, my breathing remains heavy. She scoops up my winey, watery cum, and her plump tongue writhes over her palm. Her eyes are animated, watching me watch her, as if to make sure I know she’s eating a part of me too.

A stinging sensation skims my scalp, needles stabbing down my neck and shoulders, forcing me back into the present moment.

I’m in a bathtub with a stranger. A famous artist who has her own gallery. A woman who teaches art at the university. A cannibal lover who sent out an anonymous advertisement to fulfill her fetishistic needs.

I’m into sexual cannibalism too, but I don’t know much about her besides where she lives and what her period blood tastes like. She’s technically a stranger, and this is a bad idea.

She points to the side.

“There are towels under the sink.” She lifts herself out of the water and steps over me. And it’s dismissive. Like her conquered prey is no longer necessary to her long-term goals. Like I’m one of her completed sculptures, and now that I’ve been sold, she no longer needs to pay attention to me.

Anger creeps under my fingertips as she rubs the towel over her body. I let that frustration dissipate. A minute passes.

Then I dry my body too.

“Was that performance art?” I ask.

“What do you want it to be?”

Her vague answer seeps under my skin, flooding me with irritation. That’s what an arrogant artist would say, isn’t it? It’s like she takes herself way too seriously to give me a direct answer.

I curl my fist, imagining a knife in my hand, ready to stab her in the neck. Now give me a straight fucking answer, I’d say.

No. Stop that, I think. I can’t let the fantasies change into that. Not with her.

I finish drying off as quickly as I can and pull on my tattered clothes while she side-eyes me. Control yourself, I chant in my mind. Control yourself, and you’ll get what you want.

As I exit the bathroom, I turn over my shoulder and attempt the same dismissive attitude as her. “Thanks for the good time,” I say.

“Of course, love,” she says, and I swear, I can hear her winking like it’s a game to her, and that rage bubbles to the surface again, the need to wring her neck like a chicken filling my fingertips.

Even if my heart bleeds angrily at the loss of my dream girl, she’s just a woman, and this is only a hookup.

Chapter 4

I close the bathroom door, then notice a new sign next to the handle. Do Not Enter, it says. Like someone waited for me to go inside, then switched the sign once the door was shut.

Our bathtub hand job had to be a piece of performance art. That’s the only way to explain it. She posted a personal ad and used me like another sculpture in her gallery. It was only a stage show where I had no idea I was a prop.

My facial muscles twitch. The little bitch played with me like I was her food.

I rub the back of my neck before digging my nails into my own flesh. That wasn’t what I wanted. I’m a stupid, stupid idiot for letting her use me like that.

Tsk tsk, Mona’s imaginary voice coos. You were willing. You wanted me.

“Fuck this,” I growl.

I stomp toward the gallery exit. There are probably double-sided mirrors in that bathroom and a stadium full of her pretentious fans on the other side, laughing at me. My gut churns like I’m nine years old again with a bowl of cereal and spoiled milk, hoping that if I eat it, my mother will be happy.

Mona is dismissive like my mother, isn’t she?

Despite those threatening thoughts, I stop in front of the exit door.

There’s a chance I will never find a woman who shares interests again. And I can’t fuck that up for some ego-driven tantrum.

Fine. I can do this.

I whip around and head to the open bar. I grab a beer off of the countertop and chug it like it’s the last swigs of expired protein shakes in the pantry, the last chance I have at a meal for the unforeseen future. I signal the bartender for another, then I grab the second bottle.

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