Insatiable

It's so wet; the faucet gushing in the steamy sink, slick, slippery soap squirting through my fingers. Looking into the mirror, as filthy as the one above my bed, I watch my prey, bent over the counter, furious friction sending delicious quivers through her sweet-scented skin. I want to push my fingernails through her hair, touch the lining of all twenty-seven pockets in her pants. She glances up, smiles shyly, and in five minutes, I've got my tongue behind her teeth.

I leave the bathroom, a little rosy from the exchange, and see my Tinder date has arrived. I can smell the Axe layered over his post-workout shower gel, but I'm going to need my breath back before I'm ready for another round. "Thanks for meeting me here," I smile. "It's such a gorgeous day--let's go for a walk."

"Okay." He holds the door for me; a sweet one. As I'm leaving, I can hear someone say, "Call 911! She's not breathing!"

We walk together through the rain gardens, swollen succulents standing erect between velveteen blossoms, parting petals yearning, thirsting for a downpour to drench each fragrant stamen. Our feet press into the moist, fertile soil, our hands a breath, a heartbeat apart as tension thrums between us, pulsating with each step. I'm still building up my appetite. "Mm, it's so nice and warm."

He shifts a little, the sweet thing is shy. "You don't really look like your picture."

"Disappointed?"

"No! No," he says. He traps his lip between his teeth. "I should probably tell you: I just got out of a pretty serious relationship. I guess I didn't see it online, but...you kind of look like her. I mean, you don't...different shape, different hair, very different style. But I can see pieces of her when I look at you. The line from her shoulder to her neck. Her posture. The way she moves." He shakes his head. "Sorry. I guess I'm not as over her as I thought."

I lick my lips. "She meant a lot to you. We look for meaning everywhere, even if it hurts, because we want it all to one day make sense." I modulate my voice to a whisper. "The difference between me and her, is that you can have me."

I can feel his breath catch, his heart beat a little faster. "I think I'm still just too broken up about it."

"I have a soft spot for broken things." I can see that his mind and body don't agree, but my body can be agreeable enough for both of us. "You don't want to get burned. I understand. And I can't promise you won't get hurt. But for centuries, men have played with fire. Fascinated by it. Its color. Its smell. The hypnotic flicker of the flame. The transformative power of the smoke, the heat, and the power of man to dominate that writhing blaze. Because of the danger, because of the burn, we are transfixed, seduced by that flaming beauty we can never fully tame. You have never wanted a docile electric candle. You want fireworks."

I slip my hand into his, and he shivers, strong fingers grasping mine. I know he can feel my essence caressing him, exploring every crevice of his mind, penetrating into the deep, warm folds of his consciousness. "Where's your car?"

He parked all the way on 32nd street, which did give us the privacy we wanted, but I had a long walk back to the light rail. I passed some speeding cop cars on the way, but that could have been a coincidence.

The hard steel train plunges into a tunnel, then out to a station, then into the tunnels again, then out. In rush hour traffic, strangers stuff themselves into the tight compartment, bodies pressing against each other, bracing and shuddering as the train shoots down the electric track. I catch a commuter in my eyes, reach out with the hooked tendrils of my mind, and drink deep from that well of attention, sucking the juice from that low-hanging fruit. The transient space, the thrill of anonymity, and the tense anticipation all breed fantasies from intrusive impulses, a silent stranger glistening with sweat, muscles taught, rocking to the rhythm of the rails.

The commuter collapses, and can't get medical help until we reach the station. Without physical contact, it's not a full meal for me, but I'm completely satisfied when I get off.

It's a short walk to my house, and the sun is starting to set, blushing pinks sinking into sensual scarlet, a deep, throbbing burgundy thrusting up from the trees. I hear the vibratory hum of a power tool, and see our new gardener intimately trimming my wild bush. He kills the power when he sees me, and raises a gloved hand. "Buenos noches, senora!"

"Buenas," I say. "Is my husband home?"

He shakes his head and shrugs. "I have not seen him."

I step off the path, leaning over the leafy debris. "Then why don't you come inside?"

The smile drops off his face, and he steps away from me. "Please, senora, I have a wife."

"You can bring her." I jiggle my key in the tight little lock until the door gapes open. "Come inside. I'm sure there'll be a substantial tip."

I sweep everything into the shed once I'm done with him. I've had a lot of criers today. It's impossible to explain to a prey animal that it just so happens to be delicious, but I like to think I'm considerate in my methods. There are some among my kind who've never heard of foreplay, and are hazy on the concept of consent. We don't have to be gentle. Because I am a hunter, the people I meet tend to be vulnerable, a little unprotected, more likely to get hurt. It shouldn't surprise me that they're upset about it.

I was mostly asleep when I felt a deep depression on the far side of the bed. I can't keep the smile off my face as I fling away the sheets. "Baby!"

My husband is sitting on the edge of the bed, his broad back to me. I can't keep my hands off him, but he pushes me away. "I'm tired."

"Aw!" I rest my head on his shoulder, and I can feel how dim his presence is. "Poor thing, you haven't eaten all day! Let me help you--"

"I said I'm tired."

He withdraws from me, cold air rushing to fill the space where we once touched. "Are you sure?" I ask him. "You're up."

"I'm always up," he grumbles. "My heart's not in it."

I suppress a laugh. "What does that have to do with anything?"

He shakes his head at me. "You don't even know what love is."

We had always been so bonded, so connected, our essences merged and expanded, possessing each other even when we were apart. Now, he's completely cut off from me, and I can't decode his words, and I can't even read his face. "What is it?" I wail. "Whatever it is, just tell me! Make it make sense!"

He takes a step away from me, and I grab him, afraid to let go. He sighs. Sighs! "I can't."

"I don't understand!"

"I know." He pulls out of my grip, and puts a hand on my face. "All the people you met today--did any of them have names?" I don't have an answer. He runs his fingers through my hair, a brief glow of warmth in this cold, dark room. "I'll sleep on the couch."

It happens sometimes. No one really knows why. Some of us start playing with our food, and start to feel bad about what it is we eat. There's a lot to like about human music and literature; it's easy to relate. Like anyone, I've sat in the dark, surrounded by hearts beating in sync with mine, gasping in unison at some fictitious creature emblazoned across the silver screen, and feeling like I belonged there. I've allowed myself to sympathize. But I still need to eat. And I don't like my partner looking at me like I'm a monster.

Why is he so secretive, so withdrawn, swirling around inside his own head? What is it that he hungers for more than food? I used to be the whole world to him, and now, I'm not enough? I am the embodiment of carnal craving, the original guilty pleasure, the phantom of fantasy, the sinful saint of sweat-soaked sheets, and I demand to be worshipped accordingly. That's the promise my husband made me.

Well. There are some among my kind who have never heard of foreplay, and are hazy on the concept of consent. If my husband refuses to hunt, he will be vulnerable, unprotected, more likely to be hurt. It wouldn't surprise me if he were upset. But I hate to go to bed hungry.

Even if I have to sleep alone.