YOU LOOK HUNGRY

didn't you ever learn not to play with your food?

It takes more force to penetrate flesh than I expect. The knife doesn’t slip in as it does in the movies, not through the waxy, cottony dummies they put in place of the actors so fake, strawberry-red blood can burst from the wound and coat the attacker; especially when the knife is pointed toward yourself, at least. Both of my hands wrapped around the hilt of the shiny, silver blade, the sting of the pointed edge digging just below my sternum turns to a dull throb the longer I hold it there, the harder I press, the more he looks at me, the longer he lingers, begging for blood. There’s a hunger in his eyes, in the smirk that tugs at the corners of his lips as if he’s about to run his tongue over his teeth to soothe the ache in his gums and nod at me to give him more. Soon enough, my hands became coated in a shade of red that wasn’t so bright but almost purple, a rotten sort of cranberry red, and slick slabs of meat were sliding through my fingertips as I shakily held it out for him to sink lap at the fuzzy mold with a quirk of his nose at the spoiled cut. But once the knife goes in, it takes an even harder tug to pull it out, as if it had grown barbs and didn’t want to come out, as though the body doesn’t want to let it go.

My chin lowered, I closed my eyes and let out a slow exhale, my breath warmed by the lingering sting of alcohol at the back of my throat. It bubbles in my stomach, soggy strawberries sloshing against the sides, a swirl of red and pink that also stained my cheeks.

Cranberry red soon turns black, smearing my lips and spurting up my throat. It tastes sweet, as sweet as I smell, as sweet as cake, and a smile spreads on my lips, followed by a pained grunt pushing through clenched teeth while I push the knife downward and, at the same time, deeper so the hilt is pressed to the frayed opening. At the same time, I’m hesitating, widened eyes beneath lifting brows asking don’t you want to help me? Do something more than just watch? I’ll hand you the knife. Beg you to do whatever you want to me. I want to feel you cutting me open. Nevertheless, he merely tilts his nose with curiosity and remains far enough away from me that his only role in my destruction is that of a voyeur. So, I huff and double down in the performance, giving him the show of a lifetime, proving my devotion, coughing up more blood, spreading my thighs, arching my spine, licking my filthy lips, then dipping my hand into the gaping, raw, fresh hole in my abdomen after dropping the knife to begin stretching it open and pulling my entrails from the red. Slick ropes of pastel blues, lavenders, and beige organs dangling from my palms, I tug them out and push them forward, cutting more and more of my meat from my bone until I’m slashing and hacking, tearing and ripping, laying myself down in front of him and crying for him to just fucking eat me. Devour me.

I then look back up toward him, already feeling his gaze has remained trained on me as would a predator eyeing its prey through the crowd, it heats me up, lashes me with its intensity, and whips me through steel and leather into feeling like a fluffed, softened, beaten dessert, a frosted and sugary cake dripping and soaked in vicious globs of seeping syrup. Woozy, the heat in my face trickles slowly like this syrup down to my stomach, and I feel my intestines knot, coiling around it like black snakes. It’s far more intoxicating than anything else; he looks so hungry, starved, desperate. And agitated, toward the hunger, the way it buzzes around him and lays eggs for thoughts to wriggle into his mind and for fantasies to eat away at him.

All I can do is lay there and open myself up for him. Display the ripeness he’s festered in me to see the damage and want to sink inside it. And yet, darkness inside me spills out like gasoline, pumping from my rotten wounds until I can no longer see him in its shadow. And all I’m left with is the anguish, alongside the emptiness of my own damage, the mutilation, hanging on display from metal hooks like meat in a butcher’s shop. Flayed and begging to be sold and eaten before it spoils, plump and ripe and dripping with mucus juice before the sweetness overwhelms and mold begins to attach itself to the red fibers, turning it black and purple. And as if afraid to get infected himself, I see the small flicker of a delicate flame burn a soft orange from the blackness surrounding me, and I think he’s still here, in relief, before the orange ignites the whole room, billowing black ash and blue together until the flame engulfs me, too, and the heat eats away at the bubbling and spraying of white fat and red turns brown, crispening. I don’t think he’s trying to get rid of me, not then, but cooking me, and as the fire fills my lungs, I surrender myself to it. Mistaking the pain for his own devotion. I writhe and stretch in it, wails and screams of terror and agony indistinguishable from that of pleasure and ecstasy.

Yes, yes, cook me, prepare me, gobble me up, swallow me whole. Strip my bones of their meat, pluck my tendons from between your teeth, and feel my flesh slide down your throat, shiny and caramelized. Strip me down raw and spread me open, fill me with sweet fruits, lather me, soak me, paint me, powder me in flour, pop my joints, and chop through the cartilage, twist me, make me into something appetizing.

As if sharing these images, biting into the same fruit of satisfaction in the other’s attention and suddenly becoming overwhelmed by the shame that always seems to follow, as if it threatens to bring about more insatiable needs, we both wipe the juices from our chins and spit the seeds of these thoughts from between our teeth. Tearing our eyes away from each other, when I glance back a few moments later, the corner of my vision falls on an empty space. So, I raise my head and look through the people surrounding us—their presence remaining a hazy blur—and catch him wading through the clusters, moving toward the stairs. He wasn’t leaving. I looked back down to my red solo cup, the leftover bit of liquid at the bottom reflecting the flashing, colored lights which filled the cramped space, before I discarded it to the nearest surface and followed.

Straight brows tugged upward, his rosy cheeks deepened first to magenta, then spread to blotched rubies across his prominent bone structure, the flushness adding a gleam of strain and tension that paired well with the dark chocolate and black pits of his eyes like a rich port wine; crushing plums, almonds, strawberries and an earthiness together until the taste was that of decomposition. Sharp and metallic, his composition wirery and plush, his presence was steel wrapped in velvet. That velvet now becoming spongey, the steel quivering and tensing as the bulging ropes of his forearms strained, one wide palm clasped around the countertop—the pads of his long fingers curved around the lip of the porcelain sink as he curled over it. The tops of his thighs hitting the edge, the other hand worked himself free of his pants with a few involuntary spaspms of his hips as soon as he made a fist at the base, merely sweeping the waistband beneath the swollen, tender silk stitching of his sac and leaning himself forward more, the outline of his lats stretching the cotton of his shirt while his head hung down, the nape of his neck revealing the sweat beading at his hairline as he proceeded in spitting a glob of mucus into his palm before lowering it down and beginning to try and relieve the agitating coil of arousal that had taken root in his abdomen ever since he walked into the party. Out of all of the colognes, perfumes, the sweat and twinge of vomit mixing in its sharpness with the acidity of a distant vomit spot left to be found crusted over and coagulated in the morning, he had picked out the powdered sugar fleur and candy of mine.

I knew this from the way he had lingered his nose downward at me alongside his eyes while stepping past, followed by a sharp halting of his slow inhale, which deepened before he managed to let it out, having held it deep in his chest like a smoker inhaling nicotine, their favorite addiction. Letting it pass through him, his curved lips had pressed together and when his eyes finally turned forward, releasing me, I myself had grown dizzy, wilting with weak knees such as a flower after a bee leaves its pollen. And now, I stepped against the wall leading to the guest bathroom with one hand swiping the faded paint, keeping my ear pressed close until I reached the entrance. I nearly reached to test the knob, but then the noises came—not so much grunts as low hums, and groans that bordered on snarls. Each of these noises ensared in the choppy pants of what I knew he was doing, the heat that seemed to be emitted from the room, from him, leaked down my core and soaked through my thighs, leaving a deep, instinctual throb in my pelvis that was barbed and demanding. It demanded in obedience, responding masochistically to the frustrations and needs of its sadistic ruler. His attention, simply a look from him in my suffering was enough to validate it, milk it. I wanted to give, desperately. My fingertips reached again for the doorknob, but hesitated just a second longer, the last second before it twisted from the other side, and I snatched it back.

Hurriedly twisting myself to face away from the opening door, over the corner of my shoulder I saw him then halt as he saw me standing there, looming over me for long enough it made me cower closer to the wall and bow my head, until he walked away. I looked up behind him as soon as he removed his scathing attention, his gate tense and hurried as he disappeared back into the crowd, leaving me to turn curiously toward the bathroom before anyone else could beat me to its blooming sanctuary.

I clicked the lock and inhaled as much of him as possible, my skin tingling and face burning from both exhileration, and fear, but mostly shame. I was looking for any piece of him that would be left, I knew this, a lewd, morbid curiosity that felt the same as if I’d found his bedroom and was looking for his underwear drawer, or under the bed. Scraps of his desires to nibble at, perhaps. Something to confirm they existed. When I found them, here, however, the evidence droplets of pearls pooling both by my feet against the tile alongside some leftover smeared against the porcelain, I stopped and stared at it with the widening of my eyes. I couldn’t even face myself in the mirror. I only looked up again to make sure I’d locked the door before stepping back to the remnant, creamy-white globs leftover.

It was still warm, the faucet still leaking from him trying to splash it away, then the few soggy tissues left now at the bottom of the trash from him frantically wiping it away, not realizing just how much he’d left as he pushed his curls back with hard, blotched knuckles and took a few breaths to calm himself, trusting that the dimmed and colored lights outside would conceal his complexion. He wasn’t even sure he’d finished all the way, as he could still feel himself twitching and restless, slick and dirty between his now sticky thighs, but all he was concerned with was getting away from there, and from me. His sweat now tinted by the salty, metallic, bloodlust of sex, or the lack of its satiation, the sight of me outside that door only worsened his bubbling annoyance toward its insistence, and his lack of ability to ignore it. Or help himself from those little bits of indulgence. I could feel the stab of anger in his gaze, even if I didn’t look up to meet it, my knees wobbled again as if it were powerful enough to bring me to my knees. I wanted to give. Relieve. Please. Obey. And I was just as ashamed of it as he was of his urge to pull that from me. We were holding a double-edged blade toward ourselves and threatening the other with it. Drawing blood.

All I can do is lay there and open myself up for him. Display the ripeness he’s festered in me, to see the damage. And want to sink inside it. Nestle in it. It was his damage, anyway.

When the pads of my fingers met the flat of my tongue, my lips encircled my knuckles and I began sucking the taste of him from where the fluid now dripped down from the tips. Lightheaded, I buckled and had to lean against the counter for support while imagining my tongue swirling around his skin, sucking the sweat from his pores and chewing at his skin until I left marks, beads of ejaculate oozing down the back of my throat and webbing there, cottony and thick in substance, more so than ice cream but still milky, like whipped batter or raw egg yolk. The slight tang of bitterness shocking my taste buds once I began swallowing, at the end swallowing more of my own saliva than anything, I instantly began craving more. Dropping to my knees, my palms lay flat against the tile, and I answered that craving with my whole mouth to the floor, tongue searching the grout for any beads however small, I slurped and lapped at the thin strings and aftertaste of bleach cleaner with glee, my spine stretching and curving as I moved along the tile hungrily.

And when I finally re-emerged, I wiped the back of my hand to my mouth and licked that, before moving to the trash bin and at first, simply suckling at the mix of semen and tap water before the paper began to dissolve between my teeth, so I swallowed that, too. Closing my eyes when I was able to chew through a gooey clump, a shiver spidering its way up my spine at the sensation of its texture; the whole time, picturing his fingers spread through my hair, nails scratching at my scalp while he filled my throat—used it—for his ecstasy. Swallowing another clot, I thought of how it would feel to have it pumped onto my tongue, to have it fill my mouth before swallowing, or how it would drip down my throat in strings before he shoved himself deeper and held me there to empty himself straight into my stomach.

I was just about to get my hand between my legs to alleviate the growing pain of the arousal these thoughts had caused, or worsened, when three pitched, hard knocked made my blood run cold and my heart seize; yanking me from my fantasies.

“One second!” I called out as soon as I could find my voice, crumpling up the rest of the tissues into my pocket and flushing the empty toilet before ducking out of the bathroom without paying a glance to whoever it was who needed to use it. Burying myself back into the crowd and rubbing the back of my teeth in a slight nervousness at not knowing if he’d left yet or not, and not wanting to stick around if he had, my eyes scanning the clusters of people with this same nervous energy until my question was answered, although another one quickly arose. And that was, how he knew. He knew both that I’d gone in that bathroom after him and that if he followed after me he’d find it shining and spotless, and that I was looking for him. Always looking for him. Like a dog on a leash without its owner.

Standing there, eyes narrowed beneath his brows, fresh drink pressed between his pecs, broad shoulders angled forward, once we began staring at each other, making the definitive eye contact, both caught, both guilty, both aware of one another’s depravity without being able to place our fingers on it or put an actual name to it, there were no words to describe what was being passed between us in that moment. Although I think we were thinking the same thing based off the recognition in his eyes, and the fear, the fear of knowing that once hunger begins, it doesn’t tend to go away or lessen when ignored, what I can say, for sure, was that although he’d looked hungry before then, now he was simply ravenous.