Desperate to Touch

But this is the place Bethany picked. And so I’m here.

Blowing on the hot cup of caramel coffee, their flavor of the day, I think back to last night. Back to the moment I know I lost myself as I wait for Bethany to walk in the front door.

Is any pussy really that good?

His voice is deep and rough in my memory. I don’t know if I’ve made it up, rethinking about that moment time after time in such a short period, or if he really sounded like that. There was a sense of awe, followed by a sense of loss that coated his words. I was a fiddle for him to play right then and there.

I thought after he took that first lick he’d lift his head and meet my stare to tell me, “No, it isn’t that good.” Swallowing thickly, I force down a sip of the coffee, not tasting it at all.

The way he treated me… I’ve never let a man treat me like that before. He’s fucked me every way possible, but yesterday I let him touch me, not knowing if he respected me anymore. I’m ashamed I let Seth make me feel the way he did. The vulnerability is something I’ve never felt sexually with him and I hate it. I am ashamed and humiliated. I’ve never hated him before last night.

I’ve heard there’s a thin line between love and hate, but damn, I never knew how true those words were.

What’s worse is that I know it’s the same for him. He has a mix of love and hate for me. I could feel it. It’s all deserved.

That’s why I never should have gotten on his desk. The way I craved him loving me… it’s not possible for him to do that anymore. I should know better. That fleeting thought left me the moment his touch registered. I’m not interested in a hate fuck or being played with and treated as less than. If that’s what he thinks this will be, I’ll refuse, consequences be damned.

Seth’s not apologetic; he’s only demanding. It terrifies me most because I want to obey him. I want to do whatever he tells me because I am sorry. I hate what I did to him. I hate myself. He makes me hate myself.

Maybe a piece of me thinks he should be treating me like that… like I’m “less than.”

“You okay?” Bethany’s voice startles me and pulls me back to the present. Back to the hot mug I’ve got both hands wrapped around and the small ceramic plate of bite-size lemon cake squares.

“Yeah,” I answer Bethany, setting the mug down and listening to the bells above the coffee shop door chime as an older man makes his way out. I didn’t hear Bethany come in. “I didn’t see you come in,” I tell her.

As she pulls out the mint green metal stool on the other side of the table, the feet scrape against the floor and she simply stares at me.

There are at least six more patrons in the shop, a pair of maybe sixteen-year-olds—I don’t even know if the two girls at the far end should be sipping on those lattes—and a few single adults scattered around the place. One’s reading a book, others are scrolling through their phones and one man with white-as-snow hair is reading a newspaper. Bethany’s got her back to all of them and her attention is centered on me.

“Sorry I’m late. I got into a little thing at home.”

“Does it have to do with your sister?” I ask her in response, keeping my mind focused on the fact that everyone else has something going on in their life too. It’s not all about me. It never will be. There’s always someone else who needs help. It may seem inconsistent with logic, but that’s what gets me through. Bethany nods and I’m quick to tell her, “I’m here for you, you know?” I put my hand over hers on the table and she takes it and squeezes it but then lets go as she sits back.

She seems to look right through me when she tells me, “It looks like you need someone more than me, to be honest.” Bethany’s blunt. She’s always blunt. There’s a kindness about the way she says things, but it cuts straight to the heart of the matter. She’s a lot wiser than she appears, given how young she looks. She’s been through hell and I know all about it. She came out fighting though.

We’re silent as a waitress wearing a white apron with a mint green logo for Baked and Brewed stamped square on the front of it, places a cup of tea in front of Bethany.

“Thank you.” Bethany smiles and then her dark red lips leave a smudge of lipstick behind on the white mug. That lipstick is what we first bonded over. “Lipstick courage” is what she responded when I complimented the shade. Later that night, she told me the name of it and I ordered a tube without thinking twice. There’s a lot to be said about lipstick courage.