“Drink more water,” she said. “Do less cocaine.”

Those are the last words I remember her saying to my face before she disappeared. Again. It’s true that I was consuming a preposterous amount of incredibly pure cocaine all day, every day, for nearly two years; however, nothing molds the will of a contrarian quite like being a scorned lover. She had said that it couldn’t be good for my heart, and all I could think was, “neither are you.” These white girls had more in common than she might have thought. Of course if I had known she was about to move out of town with an old boyfriend, I would have defied her wisdom like a child.

“Yeah? Well I’m going to drink none of the water, and do all the cocaine just to spite you.”

I kept it to myself, but still felt like a child, with her parting wisdom like some note pinned to my jacket. Shame on me for letting her hurt me just like before. I had even warned myself:

Don’t respond to her right away just because she’s texting you again. Don’t pretend you’re not hurt. Don’t be too polite with her. Don’t meet her for drinks – don’t ask her yourself, and don’t let her ask you. Don’t have more than one, if you do. Don’t talk about the past, even though that’s her favorite subject. Don’t get too personal. Don’t get hooked on her charm. Don’t pretend you’re not hurt. Don’t look into her eyes. Don’t let your directed attention linger desperately. Don’t make plans with her after the bar. Don’t bring her back to your place. Don’t look into her eyes or pretend you’re not still hurt. Don’t let her talk about love. Don’t let her come back to your place just because she asked. Don’t be weak. Don’t take a pill. Don’t let her ask to come home with you. Don’t let her finish this sentence. You know she’s about to ask to go back to your place. Don’t give in. Just say no. What are you going to tell her?

“I’m parked around the corner.”

FUCK.

It’s not too late to say no, even though you just said yes. It’s never too late to say no. But you won’t, because you’ve been dreaming of those unyielding, sculpted thighs, and hair like an Yvonne Bobrowicz installation – electric monofilament, like prey caught in fishing line. And those curves, which defy her narrow frame. And even though I kind of hate the noises she makes when she cums, I love to hear her announce it. And there’s clearly no denying my weaknesses because we were already back at my place, on my couch, with her eternal, everlasting gobstopper New York City legs across my lap. Her form resembled a more waspy, hipster version of Dante’s Lady Lilith, pouring over my couch and propped up in the corner. Her eyes alternated between long glances at me, and anxious shifting around the room while brushing her hair with her fingers. It took time to realize, but when some people look you in the eye, even linger, it’s just to see themselves – as complete as they dare to be.

And YES I’m weak, and I DARE you to just say no to those plump lips, as shapely as her unlikely hips. You try to pass on that ass. You turn down those slender barista fingers on your chest and up your shirt. And from the moment you first saw her, again, what did you really think you would say when she at last told you she wants to taste you drip? Infinitely and abysmally shallow, sure, but in this snapshot of your collective lives, you know that having one of the most beautiful women you’ve ever met stuff your dick in her mouth is the absolute picture of triumph.

What the fuck do you care if this night could be the last time you ever see her? Every time you’ve met her, you knew it could very well be your last glimpse.

And although her tendency to burrow within your emotional dirt-bed had you entertaining the idea of an extended future with her, that’s not what you’ve been dreaming of. You’ve been dreaming of just this moment in front of you.

So yeah, go and take her by the hand and fuck her like you’re rewriting history.

There was that familiar sight of her stripping to her perfectly set bra and panties, with little bows, silky and deep green, like she just walked off a set. Sometimes I would praise her physical body so extensively, I would catch myself and make sure to mention how much I also admired her rich, insatiable, and carefree intellect.

“I don’t want you to think I just like you for your body,” I said with a sniffle. “I really admire your intelligence.”

She chuckled and gave me the best compliment I could never even have imagined myself. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I like you for more than just your dick.”

I was always eager to dive face first into her storybook pussy and lick, laud, and lap until she would say, “I need you inside me.” I consistently admired the welcoming, curated fragrance of her flesh, which usually included notes of Palo Santo wood, but now all I can taste is rusty gasoline, like an exceptionally myopic misformulation of sweet and sour alchemy. And as I brought my sorry face up from between her legs, I saw blood on her thigh. I had marred her beauty with my foolishness.

When people ask me if I’m a breast, ass, or leg man, I struggle to explain to them this nebulous, emotional, curvature of a thrilling little sliver of just a part of a piece of a detail of the upper thigh which plunges me into a remembrance of delusions past. Even I struggle to identify it to myself. But there it is, with my blood. I wiped it off but it was dark so I couldn’t be sure and quickly put on a condom and abruptly pushed myself inside enough so that it didn’t hurt her but as deep as necessary to stay aroused before I could think too much about anything at all and have my mental feedback loop shut things down and end the night. I bowed my head to my chest to hide my face and then turned her over like the cool side of the pillow so she couldn’t see me drip.

I didn’t cum, but decided I was finished. We held each other, and despite my Viagra hangover and the nausea from not having eaten in days, I felt pleasant. And as she often did, she said she felt so safe with me. So safe. I loved to hear it every time, but looking back on things I can’t help but feel that was her delightful high before the crash. Despite all my previous experience and wisdom, it took me some time to realize that when someone says you make them feel safe, it just means they’re going to hurt you first.