Page 56 of Happy After All

“You have a lot of confidence in your prowess,” I say, feeling brittle and more fragile than I would like to admit. Feeling hungrier than I would like to admit.

“Is it what you want?” His eyes are intent on mine, and I don’t know how to respond to that. Do I want to be broken? No. But do I want him? Absolutely.

There is no question about that.

It’s even more clear to me now that I’ve looked Chris in his eyes. Now that I looked back at my past and realized I don’t want it anymore. It makes it even more clear that Nathan is what I want.

I’ve had plenty of opportunities to build fantasies around other men. There are a lot of men who travel by themselves and stay in my motel. There are a lot of men who are by themselves and have a drink at the tiki bar in town and who would definitely take the offer of a night of companionship.

Granted, many of those men are gay. However, the fact remains that if I wanted to, I could scratch a sexual itch with someone who isn’t Nathan.

I want Nathan.

He is my Everest. A mountain I feel I need to climb. Like I have to do it to get to the view I’m actually supposed to see.

He is the summit.

I don’t know why. I wish I did.

It would be easier if I wanted a man who isn’t quite so ... whatever he is. But I want him.

I’m tired of not having what I want.

“Break me,” I say. It is a sensual demand. I’m not sure I know what it means. But I mean it. I feel it. Deep in the lowest part of me.

“Don’t ask for that,” he says, looking like he wants nothing more than to honor my unhinged request.

“Please,” I whisper. “I want you. I want you to take me. I want you ...”

I think about my room. With the bright-pink Christmas tree partly assembled, and I’m quite certain with my pajama pants lying on the floor.

I haven’t been back since this morning.

I’m writing a sensual check my inexperienced ass probably can’t cash.

He looks like he knows what to do. With his hands, with his mouth. I haven’t even kissed him, and I’m sure of this.

I haven’t even kissed him, and I am all but begging him to take me to bed. I realize the absurdity of this.

I also recognize that whatever he thinks about me, and it sounds like he has thought about me, I might not be what he’s hoping for.

Maybe that’s the real issue.

Maybe he doesn’t want to spend the evening instructing a woman on how to properly handle him.

I nearly shiver at the thought. I really would like to learn.

Maybe this is some unhinged mixture of grief and rage.

Maybe I’m being fueled by only unhealthy things.

I don’t care.

Right now, Ireallydon’t care.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says.

The joke’s on him. I can’t be hurt any more than I already have been. I’m not worried.

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