My name is Dylan and I am an addict.
My drug of choice isn't alcohol. It's not cocaine or heroin or meth or gambling or even sex. My drug is intimacy. I crave it. I want it. I need it to survive. The touching, the caressing, that bond that is created when two come together and connect—that's what's missing from my life. That's the hole I desperately need to fill. I'm a lonely girl on my own for the first time in a big city aching for a connection. Any connection. I'll take it any way I can get it.
This craving consumes me. My body demands intimacy—now. It drives me from the solitary cocoon of my apartment. Forces me to stalk the city streets, looking, searching, hunting for that high to feed this feeling. I need to fill this void. This hole. I need to be touched. I need to be held. I need to feel wanted, needed, desired.
I am drawn to the rat tat thump beats that emanate from a lounge blocks away from my Dupont Circle apartment. A ten dollar cover grants me entrance. A beautiful woman wraps a bracelet around my wrist. She's quick. Efficient at her job. It's a shame when she drops my hand and moves along to the person behind me.
Her touch was nice.
The dance floor calls me. Chuck Brown pulses beneath my feet. The heavy rhythm of drums
course through my body. Commanding me. Driving me. Demanding that I bounce my hips to the rhythm. I close my eyes and obey. Lost to the beat I raise my arms to the heavens, beckoning an unknown and unseen lover my way.
Strange hands grip my waist. An unfamiliar pelvis grinds against me from behind. His hands are strong and glorious as they slide up my arms. He slowly brings them down to my sides, encapsulating me in his arms. He finds my rhythm and rides this wave with me. He gives me what I need. What I crave. He fills that void. That emptiness. That desire. He does all of this and I don't even know his name. I don't want to know his name. For now, he is my Lover. For now, this is enough. I'm not greedy. I'll take it.
Everyone else disappears. This club is our own. It's just the two of us. We engage in an age-old mating dance to Chuck's go-go swing. We dance for what feels like an eternity and no time at all. He entwines his fingers in mine, buries his lips in the column of my throat. Gives me a quick wet kiss on my neck.
One minute I'm in rapture on my way to heaven and the next I'm empty and alone, surrounded by a sea of people. All grunting. All grinding. All gyrating. Just not with me. I'm abandoned and desperate and needy on the dance floor. Where has my Lover gone?
I can't see it but I know he's marked me. Left his stamp all over me. Branded me with his scent, with his kiss. I search for him, but it's
futile. The club is suddenly at capacity. One face bleeds into another. It doesn’t matter that I never saw his face. I’ll know it when I find him. Everyone around me smells of sweat and sex and alcohol. It's hot in here. I can't breathe. I walked in with no problem yet I have to fight my way out.
The night air is as humid and suffocating as it was inside. Typical for this time of year. I take in the sticky, wet air. Let it coat my lungs. My body is humming, the rhythmic beat of Chuck's swing still vibrating throughout my body. I want to know where my Lover is. Where has he gone?
I stumble in a daze up and down unfamiliar city streets, my body calling, singing, practically screaming out for him. Panting with need I wrap my arms around myself. It’s not the same. It’s not enough. Lonely and frustrated, I’m about to give up but once again he finds me while I'm looking, stalking, hunting for him. That must be the game he plays. And I so desperately want to play.
He’s leaning against a wall, staring at me. I lick my lips. With a tiny crook of his finger he commands that I follow him down an alley. My addiction, my drive, my need compels me into a dark place. A potentially dangerous arena. But my Lover is here and he wants me so I must obey.
Lover presses me up against a brick wall, enveloping me with his body. His scent of wood and musk and lust filling my senses. He wants me. He needs me. He desires me. I can feel it.
He is beautiful.
His nose may be crooked. His mouth too wide. His face scarred and marked. But he wants me. He needs me. He is beautiful to me.
His breaths come out in short, hot bursts, smelling of mints and whisky. It's nice. I like it. Then he tastes me. Lover leans in slowly and takes a good long lick from the tip of my chin all the way up the side of my face to my widow's peak. He moans deeply and grinds those strong magnificent hips into mine again.
I need this. I want this. I must have this. His hands roam freely, groping my ass. Squeezing my breasts. Oh, how I've needed this high. It's better than any drink or any drug. Lover and I are sharing something. This is special. This is intimacy.
I love the feeling of his hands around my neck. The pads of his fingers are rough and calloused, his grip firm and tight. He stops oxygen from entering my lungs but it doesn't matter because we are connecting.
He is beautiful, this man, my Lover. We have something here. Even if he's squeezing too tightly around my throat. Even if he's too rough. It's okay. Because his eyes are focused on me. Only me.
My legs grow weak and slip from beneath me. But it's alright because my Lover is there to catch me when I fall. He keeps a firm hold on me, his strong hands making sure never to let go of my neck.
What a kind Lover
I am in heaven as he climbs on top of me, his weight surrounding me. Suffocating me with his body, his hands still tightly clenched around my throat, I feel warm. Protected. Loved.
This is my greatest high.
I welcome his hands, gripped too tightly around my neck. I wanted this. I squirm in ecstasy at the frustrated heavy breaths spurting from his mouth. I needed this. I find nirvana as I slip into darkness.
I am at peace. I am whole again.
I awaken the next morning in the alley, my Lover long gone. Slowly picking myself off the ground, I begin the trek home. My body throbbing, my throat aching, desperately craving water.
When I get back to the solitude of my home I drink hungrily from the faucet. My reflection in the mirror reveals the adventures of my night. Lover's fingers are bruised into my neck. I smile. It’s evidence, proof. It proves that I was wanted. Needed. Desired. They are marks of possession that show, if only for one night, I belonged to someone. I meant something to someone.
My name is Dylan. And I am an addict.
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