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He read Whitman to me; I was in the tub, legs up and a razor in my hand. When I cut my thigh he sighed, put the book down and crossed his arms. You don’t see me slicing my face off when I shave my beard, he said. What, that once a month thing you ask me to do for you, I asked. He laughed. Looked at me. Your left nipple is harder than your right, he pointed. Well, I started, well, even that’s bipolar about me.
It was hot as fuck, even with the windows wide open. He fanned himself with my novel manuscript. I sat next to him, cigarette lit and dried blood on my leg. He scratched it away and smiled. Brought his lips to my ankle, kissed it and pulled me closer to him.
It’s too hot to fuck, I told him. He pulled the blue scarf from under the bed. I don’t remember asking you anything, he whispered. My “yes, Sir” was hushed with a look. Now be a good girl and lift your arms. Now be a good girl and remember all this; you’ll write it down someday.