I straightened my legs, and my eyes sought out the spot where I had last cut myself.
It had been years since I’d put anything sharp against my skin. The moment I placed the blade’s edge on a portion of unmarred flesh on my right thigh, a sense of peace settled over me. I pressed gently on the blade and drew it smoothly and slowly across my skin. The sting was familiar, like a long-lost friend back returned to demand my attention. I tipped my head back and hissed in greeting.
As I returned my gaze to the blood seeping from the small slice and the bright, red droplets that splashing onto the stark white of the tub’s base, the realization of what I had done to myself yanked me out of the dark space in my head, and I dropped the blade in horror. I’d thought I had overcome my cloistered desire to bleed. Apparently, I was wrong.
“Oh my God.” I dropped the blade onto the lip of the tub as the enormity of what I’d done hit me. I covered the small wound with one hand and turned on the faucet with the other. Once the water was hot, I stood and pulled the button to re-route the water to the shower head.
Under the scalding spray, I watched the blood disappear down the drain—as did the red trail down my thigh, until all of the evidence of my lapse was gone.
As the sting along my cut skin ebbed, I reached for the hanging washcloth, soaped the hell out of it and scrubbed my body until every inch of my skin was squeaky clean. If only it was that easy to wash away the fear that crowded my sanity.
After shampooing my hair and conditioning it, I stood under the strong stream, hoping the pelting water wash away the rest of the memories that clung to me. It was a long time before I felt safe enough to step out of the tub.
The movement caused my wound to re-open and beads of blood formed. I grabbed some toilet paper, placed it over the cut and pressed hard, not caring if I was still dripping wet. Once the bleeding stopped, I quickly dried off, bandaged the wound and then dried my hair.
I moisturized my face, slathered a good layer of lotion onto my body—my normal nightly routine. Long ago, my therapist explained that routine was good for me, especially when I was stressed. Along with the mantra I usually repeated in my head. I’m alive. I’m safe. I’m here.
There one more item I needed against my skin. I rummaged around the bottom drawer of my dresser and pulled out a Nirvana concert t-shirt that once belonged to Krew. I stole it years ago because I loved his smell. His scent immediately calmed me.
Even though Krew’s smell was long gone, every once in a while—especially after I woke up from a nightmare, the comfort the well-worn material soothed me back to sleep.
With his t-shirt on, I popped two Valiums with a few swigs of water and climbed into bed. After turning off the lights, I closed my eyes and waited for the pills to kick in.
I tossed and turned, forcing my eyes to stay closed. And yet, sleep eluded me. Still on edge, I reached into the drawer of my nightstand and pulled out my rabbit.
Why not get off while the pills kick in?
On my back, I spread my legs—slowing my movements a bit when the cut and the bandage on my right thigh protested the change in position. I pressed the end of the vibrator against my clit and turned it on. Its steady hum calmed me immediately and drew my focus to the pleasure slowly building within my core.
A groan left my lips as I moved the pulsating tip along my slick folds and then back up to the tiny bundle of nerves. My hips instinctively gyrated, as pleasure notched higher and higher.
“Krew,” I whispered into the room and imagined the man as he looked at the fight, so different than the last time I saw him. “Decker,” I moaned, trying to imagine what he would look like now.
My head began to fill with images of my men kissing me, kissing each other. Their mouths—separately, together, and between my legs. Me on my knees, my mouth on their most private parts.
In all these years I’ve been running from my past, I remained celibate. I had never wanted anything to do with sex—especially with men. Period. But one look at Krew, and I’d give up my celibacy in a heartbeat and go down on my knees before him to make one of my fantasies a reality.
Then Teke’s ugly face popped in, destroying the glorious sensations stirring between my legs. His appearance reminded me why I wasn’t with Krew and Decker.
My heart ached, and I lost the motivation to continue with my self-gratification. I threw the vibrator in frustration, and it clattered against the opposite wall.
I rolled onto my side in frustration, staring into the darkness of the room. My thoughts gravitated back to Krew and his face, envisioning the man I was still in love with—well, one of them.
After seeing Krew enter that cage for a fight, I questioned if I had known him at all. Was he willing to pummel another person for money? Did he enjoy it?
The intensity on his face belies the quiet embodiment of a boy I once knew. The hard line of his tense jaw and the cold glint in his beautiful eyes was of a man who been through hell and back. His hardened exterior was molded into a beast of a man. The ink on his sculpted body told a tale—probably many, that I desperately wanted to know.
Was he still tender hearted and quiet? I didn’t think so. What did his voice sound like now? Soft and gentle, or hard and commanding? Would his kisses be the same? Loving and generous?
Don’t go there, Regi. I shut those selfish emotions right down.
It didn’t matter, if Krew was even more gorgeous now than in his youth. My heart yearned to see him again. To learn how his life had turned out without me. I began to tear up.
My thoughts suddenly detoured—if I hadn’t run away, what would my life be like now? Would I have stayed with them? Let Krew and Decker touch me? Let them love me? I had no answers, because I didn’t have the guts to face the truth. If I had somehow found the courage to confess to them that Teke had raped me, they wouldn’t have wanted me anymore.
Over the years, I had thought about Krew and Decker. A lot. Where were they? What were they doing? Were they together, like I had always known they should be? If not, did they have partners?
I immediately shook that thought out of my head, not wanting to know. Jealousy was a salty bitch. The idea of my men having sex—touching someone other than each other or me, ignited my anger. Frustration cut me to the bone, at how I was driven to live a life that wasn’t of my own doing. That was why I kept the thoughts of Krew and Decker in an iron box, and locked them up in the dark recesses of my mind.
