Hating Myself For Her

I know that I should stay away, but I just can't help myself. I keep going back even though I know it will end the same way. I'll find myself in too deep and I'll get hurt. But knowing how it will all turn out won't keep me away.

She's impossible to resist. In the bedroom, she'll do anything I ask. She'll say anything I want to hear. Anything except for that one important phrase. To her, love is a four-letter word.

And so my frustration will grow. I'll keep it locked inside for a while, but eventually I'll explode. I'll tell her how I feel. I'll tell her what I want. And she'll listen, just like she always does. And then she'll pat my head and dismiss me with talk about her youth and her freedom, and I'll run away, just like before. Just like all the times before.

I try and stay away, but I always go back. I know when I'm not there that she replaces me with someone else, and the thought makes me sick with jealousy. I'm disgusted by her hedonism. But I go back.

I can't describe the feeling I get. I drive around the garage, searching for a parking spot in the pale white lights. My heart races. I feel queasy. I'm excited. I'm horrified. I park the car and get out.

Just thinking about the elevator makes me feel claustrophobic. I climb the stairs. The white light reflects of the white walls and the cold, gray steel of the steps. I feel like I'm entering an institution. My heart continues to race. My stomach continues to turn. But I keep climbing.

The heels of my shoes make a loud, clicking sound on the black tile floor that seems to echo off the sterile walls of the hallway. At the end, a large window looks out on the city below. The buildings look so still. All their lights can't chase away the night.

I walk to her door and stop. I lift my hand to knock. It's visibly shaking. I pull my hand back and just stand there, staring at the heavy oak door and the brass knocker. I can hear my own heart. Each breath I take seems too loud. I lift my hand again. I knock on the door.

She looks like the typical femme-fatale. Tall and blonde with cold blue eyes and skin like porcelain. Her lips are painted blood red and she's dressed in all black. She's always in black. A tiny smile graces her lips, but just for a second.

"I thought maybe you wouldn't come," she says.

I don't bother with a response. She knew I would come. We both knew it.

I take off my dark, leather coat and she hangs it in on the rack. The living room furniture is all dark. It's mostly leather and glass. The far wall is one large window that looks out upon the city night. To a first time visitor, it might be breathtaking, but I've been here before.

She walks across the room to a small bar, and I can't help but watch the way her hips move beneath her slinky, black skirt. She fixes a drink and bring it to me. Her tight sweater is low cut, and she smiles again when she catches my eyes glancing towards her cleavage.

"It's been so long," she says with a smirk. "Do you want to bother with small talk, or should we go straight to the bedroom?"

I tip my glass back and feel the vodka burn my throat as it goes down.

"We can talk later," I say gruffly.

"My thoughts exactly," she responds.

She takes me hand and we move down the hall towards the bedroom. Her touch is ice cold. My heart is still racing. My stomach is still turning.

The bedroom is exactly the same as I remember. Not a thing has changed. It's dark and sparsely decorated. Yet another glass wall looks out onto the sleeping city. A large bed dominates the space.

She turns to me and presses her body against mine. Our lips meet. There is no taste to her kiss. Her tongue slips into my mouth and I savor the moment. I can't help myself. For the moment, my earlier apprehension slides away. I cease to think. For now, I'm only concerned with pleasure.

She pulls away and starts to open the buttons on my shirt. I lean forward and steal another kiss.

"I'm glad you're here," she says quietly. "I always miss you during your breaks."

I know she's being sincere. She can pretend that there is no emotional connection between us, but there is no denying the physical link. We're like two pieces of an ornate puzzle, each perfectly crafted to fit the other. There's no rhyme or reason to it, but we both know that when we fuck, something special happens.

She slides my shirt off and kisses me again. I can feel my excitement growing. I step away and take a seat on the edge of the bed. She drops to her knees without being told, as if she can read my mind. She always seems to read my mind.

I watch as she pulls her sweater over her head. She's not wearing a bra. Her breasts are small and perky and she rarely bothers. She slides forward and reaches for my belt. I watch her remove my pants. She leans forward. I close my eyes and let it happen. My breath comes in quick, shallow bursts as I enjoy the sensation.

Later, the two of us are in bed. Sweat glistens on my pale, naked body as I hover over her. She calls my name. She pulls me closer, and her long nails sink into my flesh. We move faster. The bed creaks softly as I drive into her. Her cold, blue eyes glow like sapphires in the dark room. The pace becomes frenzied, and our mutual cries seem to echo off the walls. Almost simultaneously, we climax. With her, it's almost always simultaneously.

We lie together in the dark room, both of us looking at the ceiling. She takes a cigarrette from a pack on the nightstand. I grab one for myself. One bad habit deserves another.

My brain is working again. A thousand thoughts race through my head. I'm happy. I'm sad. I'm excited. I'm scared. I make myself sick. She notices the look on my face.

"What is it?" she asks. "You don't want to talk about your feelings again, do you?"

I exhale a puff of smoke and shake my head.

"No," I respond. "Not again. Not tonight."

"Good," she says. "I don't feel like having that conversation again."

I feel sick. Really sick. But I won't leave. Deep down, I also feel content. Content and safe. It's not a healthy relationship, but it's better than being alone. Maybe she'll come around. Probably not. But maybe.

"I have a work thing later this week," she says. "A cocktail party. Will you be my date?"

"Of course," I answer.

"Good," she says. I watch as she stubs out her cigarette. "Are you sleeping here tonight, or are you leaving?"

"Here."

"Good," she says again. "You know I always like company with my morning shower."

She leans over and kisses me goodnight. It's a slow, sensuous kiss. It feels nice, but there is no emotion behind it. No affection. She views me like a partner, not a lover.

She falls asleep. I lie in bed with her and spend the night, but I don't sleep. I just stare at the ceiling. Thinking. Hating myself. Hating her. And loving her at the same time.