The Devil of Pleasure

Chapter 6

Anthony can't come over today. He has some “real tough paperwork” that he has to get done before tomorrow.

“You know I'd love to come over. Spending time with you is like gazing into a mirror and seeing endless beauty, forever. But life as a freelancer is tough sometimes.”

“I understand. I could probably use a breather from all the fantastic fucking.”

“Please. What we do isn't fucking. Animals fuck. We're above that level. We make love. You know as well as I do that this is spiritual more than physical.”

And he's right, and I was wrong. Mentally, I wanted a breather, but that's not what my body or my heart said. Without Anthony there with me, my apartment felt small, cramped, boring. Binge-watching old “Doctor Who” left me bored and “Game of Thrones” didn't even do anything for me. Can you believe that it was a Saturday and I was sitting in my pajamas and pouting?

Flashes of Anthony came to my mind as characters died in bloody fashion on my television. The violence triggered a visual of Anthony rising above me in his demon form. Hallucination during extreme ecstasy? I guess it was possible. It didn't matter, as I pulled down the top of my pajama bottoms and felt myself. Wet, wet as an ocean but nowhere near as salty.

Like a good modern girl, I had plenty of vibrators for moments like these and, before, Anthony, I'd been well acquainted with all of them. My favorite was right beneath the couch, and I leaned forward, put my hand under, reached deep, and found the box. I pulled it out and wiped off the dust.

“Five-Point Massage Tool,” the top said, a label that always made me laugh. He was a beauty. I'd named him Gregor, and he was long, fat, and capable. I plugged it into the wall, sat back down, turned it on, and let my mind wander to Anthony.

Waves of pleasure tore through me as Gregor hit all my special spots. My mind worked overtime to put Anthony there as if he was the one vibrating in me, and it almost worked. But something had changed: Gregor didn't cut it. No matter how skillfully I applied him – and I know how to work Gregor – it wasn't enough. I couldn't get off. Even after I put Gregor away and tried my backup team – David, Harold, “The Doctor” – I couldn't get myself going. But I was as turned on as ever and was so wet I soaked through to the couch.

I got up and paced the apartment. By now, my pants were off, and I could feel my crotch dripping. Anthony was there and not there at the same time. I thought I saw him in the kitchen, but it was nothing. I leaned against the kitchen counter, my hand between my legs, and tried to get something accomplished. It felt nice, sure, but it was just that: nice. To me, nice is a dirty word and the descriptor you use when you have nothing else good to say. I couldn't get off. I needed him here to release this pressure. I went to bed at eight that night and fell asleep rubbing myself raw.
– – – 
“I'm sorry, honey, but I can't come over today either.”

“But Anthony. I miss you.”

“I know. I miss you too.”

“I need you here. I am...I want you here in me.”

“And I want to be there in you. I spent all day yesterday thinking about you.”

“Oh Anthony, me too.”

“You spent all day thinking about you?”

“Smart ass.”

“Ha. It can't be helped. There's so much to do, and I got behind. We need to find time apart.”

“What do you do anyway? You never said.”

“Freelance work. I'll talk to you later.”

– – –

Sunday came but I didn't, and things were getting desperate. I showered with a battery-operated version of Gregor and dressed. I was still wet, kept thinking about Anthony, so I had to put on pads to absorb the moisture. In my car, I cranked the radio as loud as I could and sang along to Adele. I don't even like her, but it was on, and I knew the words and I needed a distraction.

I stopped at a gas station. The clerk was an African-American teenager, and he smiled at me. I felt myself getting wetter. This kid wasn't even good looking, but my mind went to mounting him in the back of the store. My mouth was dry as I spoke.

“I need a large, dark coffee.”

“You like your coffee black, huh?”

“Like my men.”

He grinned and winked. I took the coffee and practically ran out the door. What was wrong with me? I drove aimlessly through the city sipping coffee, singing to the radio, and trying to ignore any man who walked by. They all looked good to me, though not as good as Anthony. My permanent lust made me want them and, thank God, I had enough control of myself to know that. The pressure built up in me and I moaned thinking about Anthony. Could you be addicted to a single man?

I needed Anthony. I didn't want him: I needed him. I felt trapped and helpless. I ran out of coffee, which was the breaking point. I pulled into a gas station parking lot and cried and cried. People walked by me and looked in at me in curiosity. I couldn't even blame them.

I wanted more coffee. I went into the store, and it was, somehow, the same one I'd stopped at before. The teen was still there, and he smiled when he saw me. I went to the counter.

“Hey lady. Glad you came back.”

I smiled. It was going to happen. There was nothing I could do to stop it.

“Can I have another coffee?"

“Anything else?”

I sighed. What choice did I have?

“You.”

The boy smiled. I felt like puking.