Dreams of 18

Love isn’t about asking someone to love you back.

It’s about loving.

It’s about finding that thing you love and letting it kill you because you’re going to die anyway. And what better way to go than at the hands of someone you love.

That’s what Bukowski said, didn’t he? Those were the words that pushed me to kiss him that night when I turned eighteen. So it’s only symmetric that they push me now.

I’ll tell him the truth and maybe he’ll kill me. But it’s okay.

Because all along he’s been telling me what I deserve, and I’ve finally realized what he deserves.

He deserves the truth.

I told him to paint my nails the other day.

We were on the bed, getting ready to sleep. He’d just come out of the bathroom, all bare-chested and wearing those plaid pajamas of his when the inspiration struck me. I was propped up on the pillows, wearing his shirt that I stole from him as soon as he got home from work – no panties – lifted my leg up and wiggled my toes.

“Will you paint my toes, Mr. Edwards?” I asked, swirling a lollipop in my mouth.

He prowled toward me, making all the lust inside me wake up. Not that it ever goes to sleep when he’s around but still.

He reached the bed and looked at my lifted leg once before focusing on my core, which I was accidentally-on-purpose flashing him.

“Do I look like a dumb college kid to you, Jailbait?” he rasped, glancing back at me.

I lowered my leg onto the bed but kept my thighs open for him. “You look like a sexy hunk of a man right now and I want you to paint my toes.”

I thought he wouldn’t; I was just kidding.

But he grabbed the shiny nail polish bottle from the side table where I’d left it the last time. Then, he climbed on the bed and knelt between my open legs. He clutched my ankle, widened my legs even more so I was open for him and put it on his hard thigh before getting down to work.

He meticulously painted every little toe of mine. Every single one as he bent over me and stroked the tiny little brush just so.

He wouldn’t even look at her, my pussy, that he’d spread my legs for, and for some reason that made her wetter, sloppier.

But more than that it filled me with so much love for him that once he was done, I legit attacked him. I pounced on him and kissed his entire face, ruining his work on my toes in the process but whatever.

Then I told him that I wanted to ride his thigh and come all over it and he let me. He let me ride his bare thigh until I came and spread all my juices over him before he fisted my hair and looked me in the eyes. “You’ve had your fun, Jailbait. My turn now.”

I thought he meant he wanted me to suck his cock but he growled, “Sit on my face.”

Not only that, he actually made me.

He maneuvered me and positioned me until I was sitting on his face while he ate me out and made me come again, this time on his jaw and beard, while jacking himself off.

Meanwhile, we’d forgotten about that nail polish bottle and in all of our shenanigans, it had spilled, staining the sheet.

I see the stain now as I wake up the morning of my nineteenth birthday. The token from the night when he painted my toes after he said he wouldn’t.

His side of the bed is empty and it’s cold, meaning he’s been gone a long time.

He’s probably at work.

He’s probably found out by now. About me, I mean. And he’ll talk to me about it when he gets back.

Strangely, I don’t have any fear in me.

The fear went away yesterday when he saved me from Richard and my own mind so I could forget that I’m ill for a little while.

I didn’t even feel anything other than a pounding heart when I set the plan in motion last night after I turned nineteen.

I thought about how to tell him. How best to convey everything that is inside of me, and the answer was simple.

My journals.

I could give them to him and he could read it all for himself. So I left them on the coffee table, the complete stack of them along with a few other things.

Now he can know everything.

He can know that at sixteen, I saw him and fell in love. At eighteen, I kissed him and a scandal broke out that almost broke me and at nineteen, I’m telling him all about it.

I throw off the covers and climb out of the bed.

The floors creak under my feet and that sound somehow brings me to my knees.