“Come to a work event with me. I need arm candy.”

There was a time when I would freak out about whether or not a guy would text back. And what his lack of response might mean. And all my feelings of self worth were affected by this.

Now I see texting as fishing. Baiting. Non-manipulatively, of course. But texting is just a means to an end. A shot in the dark multipled by a number of men. I could text 10 of you all the same thing. Surely a few will bite. And if it’s no one, then fuck it, it’s not my night.

This was the first time in years that I was texting Stephan. He’s a sexy stallion of a man who is so damn electric to be near that I repeatedly allowed him to mistreat me. Well, technically it was me torturing myself in a chaotic state of limerence.

I was consumed by my desire for Stephan. Morning, noon, night. I could think of nothing but him. Sometimes it put me on top of the world, other times I was in utter despair. The last time I left him it was over an unreturned text message. I’d asked him a question and he completely dropped the conversation. I was preoccupied with it for days. When he finally reached out, he acted like nothing happened. So I stopped returning his phone correspondence of any kind.

I was hurt when he didn’t reply, but too stubborn to tell him that it really bothered me. I guess a part of me felt like it would be embarrassing if I told him and he called me needy or clingy. And so what If I was needy? That’s just a sign that my needs weren’t being met. So I cut him off.

I had other ways of accessing pleasure than spending time with him. I taught myself Shibari. Tied up, rope drunk, delta floating. I danced in the bed of my truck with daisies in my hair. I trained my bad knee to be stronger. I slid across dance floors and threw my head back in ecstasy. I practiced the saxophone in public shamelessly. I danced with reckless abandon. I tattooed my skin and got goosebumps from cute girls kissing my neck. I’d all but forgotten about Stephan until I came across a piece of writing.

I remember the things he would write to me. The way he used his words to draw me in and toy with me. I always felt as though he wanted to know me, consume me, possess me, but stay out of my way. He had a way of bringing up duality in me. And I, being a walking contradiction could never quite predict which parts of me would rise to meet him.

“What’s the dress code? And when?”

“Business Casual”
“March 13, 6PM.”

And just like that, I had a date with the devil.