I can still feel her scent on the shirt I stole from her. She still has my sweater. My grandpa sweater. My oversized blue cardigan button down sweater. The 2XL one. She’s still sleeping in it and wearing it around town like a daddy-chic dress or some sort of officer’s coat, and sleeping in it and masturbating with it around her, because I can’t be there at that moment. I can’t be there every moment. Surely she has slipped her plug-in powered vibrator up the hem and between her legs, and now it smells more of her than it ever did of me.

If our sizes were anywhere close to each other, I would surely try her shirt on, to have her as close to me as possible.

I was saddened though to find that her insecurities led her to cut the size out of the tag. It would be that much more difficult to find dresses for her, and put them on her, and pose her – just as she liked – just as the Barbie doll she wanted to be.

I laid in bed, with her shirt draped over my torso, like she were there spooning me, and I thought back to the moment I knew for sure she was into me. Incredibly it wasn’t when she touched my leg, or blew on my ear. I try not to date clients and I’m known for my rules and procedures, so she asked me,

“If a client wanted to come over, take Molly, and get tied up, what’s the protocol for that?”

“Um,” I said. “I think that was it.”

My place was an epic mess, and she was like some Venus born from a cardboard Amazon box. She wore her corset the whole night, and kept pulling back on the L-word, and was glowing as she kept touching my skin, and I kept apologizing for it, and she kept removing bits of clothing, and she took a bath complete with touchless orgasm, and we listened to Nirvana’s “Nevermind,” and she showed me how wet she said I made her, when others couldn’t, and at one point she had to take off the corset to stop from pinching her, and I ate her out from behind with her perfect ass up in the air and she finally begged me to fuck her, and she said please, finally inside her, with our hands gripped together, our palms united, wrapped around her chest to bring her closer, on her belly, grinding into the mattress, pulling her hair back with my forehead on hers, able to see that look of blissful suffering in her eyes, unable to push my way completely inside her, inside her like the phenethylamine, inside her like panic, inside her like obsession, like compulsion. It all swims through estuaries in her physical mind like lost schools of serotonin, and all I want to be, all that would make me happy, is to be her throbbing, fleshy empathogen.