She lay on my bed, her hair on the pillows, her shirt rolled up over her flat stomach, her jeans fitting tightly around her legs. I sat in a chair, beside the bed, laughing, my legs crossed. I’d just given myself a haircut. It felt like being a therapist, with a psychopath on the bed feeling her stomach and laughing, like we had an appointment and we weren’t making much progress.
Something told me she liked watching me squirm. She knew it was breaking some sort of boundary.
In her belly two cartons of chocolate milk sloshed around, and I wanted to climb on top, and rub myself along her, and stretch my arms to the edges of the bed and cover her like blankets. It’s been a long time since this happened, and to be frank, there’s no one you can explain this to. They just aren’t interested, unless they’ve been in a similar situation, or are in one now.