This week’s Wicked Wednesday theme is “Three” and I’ve written a short piece for it.
Three is a significant number in our relationship for so many reasons.
Three. The number of dates before I slept with you.
Three. The number of orgasms I had our first night.
Three. The number of years we were together.
Three. The number of times you proposed to me.
Three. The number of times I turned you down—at least I showed some sense.
Three. The number of other women you slept with.
Three. The number of ways in which you broke me.
First, you broke my body. Broke it for anyone else, ever. No one will fuck me the way you did, digging into my hips with your fingertips, branding my neck with your teeth. You’ve spoiled me for other lovers, for more timid men who would caress the planes you used to bruise. Who’d kiss me where you bit me. Who’d make love to me instead of fucking me hard and nasty. I have scars from my time with you, physical scars. I wear them with pride for the memories they hold. My body was yours. My body is yours. My body will always be yours. Three times over.
Second, you broke my mind. You tore through my mind with your games. Your mindfucks. You were the consummate player. You always knew what I wanted and you always refused me. Or added a condition, a codicil, a covenant. This only on condition of that. Nothing was ever easy or straightforward with you. You twisted everything and I became addicted to your reversals. You made me beg. You allowed me happiness, a second at a time, then took it back for so much longer. I couldn’t get enough of you but ultimately I had too much. You extracted too high a price for the pleasures you gave. You left a shadow across my mind that the light will never dissipate.
Finally, you broke my heart. You didn’t break it—you shattered it into a thousand pieces. Over and over again, as fast as I could pick up the shards, you swung at it with the sledgehammer of a careless word, a thoughtless omission, a calculated slight. You cradled my fragile heart in your cupped hands. Then you crushed it, or dropped it, or simply forgot about it as you turned the bright beam of your attention elsewhere. You rode over it slipshod on your way to something better. I became an expert at sewing it back together, stitching up the deepest cuts and mopping up the spilled blood. It will never heal. It will never beat so fast and strong for someone else.
Yesterday, you sent me a one word message.
No, there will be no four.
Three sated me.