The scooch and screech of chairs against the scuffed, aging hardwood floors echo throughout the shelves. Students coming and going, reading spines and flipping through pages, the library is lively this Saturday morning. Much to my surprise, I find my stand alone desk isn’t occupied in the Stacks and I’m truly honored. My private island. All alone, it faces a bare brick wall where I’ve etched his name over time with a safety pin from my jacket. I find myself spending more time staring at the brick than any words on a page. Study literature? How when he’s every line of a poem I need? How when he’s a better read than any book I own? I observe, analyze, every freckle, fold, flaw on my demigod. The way the lines crease around his eyes when he laughs, how he uses his whole body as he roars. The way the muscles and veins flex and protrude when he’s building or sculpting, grabbing a hold of me. How smooth his peanut butter skin, the small contrast against mine as we lay side by side. The sounds he makes in his sleep, the way his chest rises and falls as he cuddles up against me while I read. Not any chemistry or philosophy book holds my attention. I hear the campus clock bellow a new hour, jerking me away from my trance. I relax in the stiff seat and open to page 59 in my lit book and try to study authors of the 1940’s. I can study him later.
And if I could have it any other way, I’d have him in my bed. But this world isn’t perfect; it’s grimey and crooked and confusing. He sits in a chair in the corner of the hotel room, watching me undress as Interpol plays in the background. I like the way his gaze feels on my shoulder blades as I slip my bra straps down my arms. I can feel his urge to eat me up. The danger of being desired is becoming addicted to the game. My husband has never desired me like my men do. He has never taken me, pushed me up against the wall, torn a skirt off of me. But these men, my men, feed me sexually. Once my bra hits the ground, he charges at me, the chair his the wall with a loud thud from the momentum. He tackles me onto the bed, biting and kissing at my neck and collarbone. No my husband could never want me this much for he lacks passion. And without his passion, I remain unfaithful.