I think the type of desire and want I need in order to feel fulfilled simply does not exist. I find myself engaging with real boring types of men. Men who lack passion, conviction. Men who are ugly and sucky and whiny, like children. I fuck them and think to myself, “How lucky you are to have experienced something like me. You should be grateful for everything I was willing to give you.” I let them use me, and in the morning, I toss them to the side like old dirt in my garden, while I just keep digging a bigger hole for myself. Constantly shoveling for something I will never find. What am I looking for exactly? I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you because I am both The Masochist and The Sadist, and all of it is fun for me. 

In my most frequent fantasies, I am almost always sought after by some kind of creature. He is handsome and eerie looking, like only devils can be. I lay with him on plush bedding, wearing nothing but a thin nightgown, and when he puts his monster teeth inside my neck—sharp and pristine white—I picture a haziness overtaking me, as though I am walking in between dreams before waking. Numb and languid, sensually languid. In my vision, I am moaning breathlessly, the air escaping my lungs as he sucks and licks my sensitive, burning skin. I can almost feel the way he pulls from me every sluice of blood, greedily gulping the very essence of my life into his physical body. Drinking myself into him because I am his only sustenance. He holds my life in his hands but he never takes too much—always just enough because he needs me to live. Oh, how he needs me! The creature grinds itself against me as he drinks, pinning my arms in one strong hand, the other splayed across my waist in the most possessive and hungry manner, growling like a feral animal, consuming everything I am blood and soul. As I teeter between life and death, the physical and the spiritual, dream and yearned reality, I can feel my eyelids flutter in real time as they roll into the back of my head. I picture his bite not as painful, instead, it is nothing more than euphoric. If he takes me like this, in this state, I don’t mind. I welcome it. I can see him pushing my nightgown to my hips and slotting himself between me in deep, slow, loving strokes. When he is done, I barely manage to open my eyes. Through blurred vision I can see spit and blood smeared on his lips and chin, his eyebrows upturned in ecstasy. He cradles me like the caged, wounded bird I have become. He will leave a crimson trail of kisses—the smell piercing my nostrils—across my cheek and collarbones before sighing and curling into my side. He releases his predatory grip, but I find the strength to lay my hand on top of his. In my vision, I fall from bliss into black. The last thing I feel is his breath on my sticky skin, and I picture the wet feeling of the pillow as it dampens from my leaking neck. 

Last night, in my bedroom, I dug my nails into yet another pathetic waste of man skin. I told him to bite me, bite me hard. Leave your teeth marks in my skin, draw blood, I want it! I want you to want it! 

In the morning, he was added to my pile of dirt, and the sharp steel edge of my shovel hit the ground once more.