I’m amazed at the amount of people who seem surprised to find me nice. I think, in some regard,that they expect to be treated like shit by me, perhaps because I do spend some serious time in the gym, and have a particular mode of dress which requires I remain (somewhat) pressed and know, however arrogantly, I am good-looking.

We both know those vapid people who walk in similar shoes to mine. They’ve had the world handed to them - via a lucky draw from the genetic pool - looks or money, and with money you can buy the looks. In short, they treat everyone around them as lesser. Lesser beings simply because their great grandfather didn’t have the foresight to start a hotel chain out of his basement.

However it is, they’ve grown up without the challenges that force them to be humble, that force them beyond the ‘me’ mentality common in children and teenagers. Surely it is a curse of the rich to bear off-spring that will not appreciate every cent in their padded bank accounts, and will not know sweat beyond that which forms on their bottled, designer, waters.

To go hungry is to know an emptiness whose solution is so simple, yet so out of reach. To go without power, or running water is to know that the world goes on without either - just not as smoothly, not as cleanly, not as easily.

So that when people find me nice it is simply because, while I do look like one of those people, I am not one. I’ve lived without food early on; I’ve lived without power, and with water I had to fetch from the stream. I live in the shadow of a God I cannot embrace, yet try desperately too; in the shadow of a father whose voice I still hear in my head. I’ve been taught humility in it’s raw, harsh form, and it did not beat me.

It has simply numbed me to the suffering of others. I still afford a smile to the cashier at my local grocery store, a generous tip to the waitress (and single mother of three) at the local coffee shop. I still let people in during traffic, don’t scream at them (anymore) when they cut me off, and help my aging neighbor with her new deck.

I believe in pride. I workout, dress sharply and walk tall all because I am proud. It never, at any time, came at the cost of my humility, my humanity.

Those apples will rot - but the trees endure.

I’m sinking into my mood again. Allowing myself, really, to engage the darker, right side of my head. While I am stained with sadism, the right side is, what you might consider, the creative thinker, the one that comes up with nasty ideas to mind-fuck my partner. He is the gun carrier, the needle lover, the brash genius. My left brain envies him, even as it tries to introduce the cool precision of the scalpel.

It may seem like two minds, but they blend and complement each other as well as music written by God and yet, conducted by the Devil.

I roll my head back and rest it against the espresso leather of my club chair, my favorite for it’s unique ability to embrace my frame. I stare at the ceiling and think of a mural so obscene that my company here would have to be select indeed. It would be the sort of sweet perversion that makes you stare before you remember to look away.

My fingers toy idly with my knife, the metallic sound of metal striking metal as the motion swings it briefly open and then shut again. I love this chair, but the urge to drive the knife into the leather and wood is compelling. The knife compliments my hands, my fingers, and whispers to me of pleasures I’ve no right to take. The light around me fades and my mind starts to wander…

It’s the chase, truly, that drives me. I am, in this case, no better than the dog chasing after the car, or the cat chasing the mouse. I want the hunt, the vicious take-down. I want to cut and feel the sticky blood on my fingers, feel my face contort with anger.

I want my fingers in her hair, twisting, pulling, until great quantities snap and break, and strike her until she cries the truly emptying, pitiful sobs of the defeated, resigning herself to what will come. I want her so drained, she can’t assemble thought except that of an animal, seeking to avoid the agony, lessen what she feels.

But I won’t let her hide. After the pain would come the most terrible of truths, the pure artistry of seduction, sex, for that is where my sadism truly finds root - in sexuality. Without this, the first part is wasted, harmful energy expended by a beast. To seduce her, I have to know her, know her secret heart of hearts. To turn her against herself, I have to play her gently, run my fingers along her back, coax awakening in her screaming nerves to receive more than just pain.

My voice, ever-present in her ear even as her body begins to vibrate like a finely tuned instrument. The pain lessens in one area to be brought back sharply in another. Pleasure finds its way like an intruder into her belly. Tears lessen, dried onto her skin in salty paths, or rubbed against my lips which kiss her everywhere but her mouth. I want to hear each delicious cut of breath, each cry, each wordless sound that bears my echo.

When my fingers finally make their way to the crux of her need, I want her body arched like a bow ready to fire an arrow. I want her taut, needing, in spite of, or in lieu of the pain. It doesn’t really matter, it simply is sensation at my hand. It is a fire that I nurture, evident in the nipples that never soften, never quite dry out from the moisture of my mouth.

When I do speak, after this dance where she was the music, I ask her - ‘What do you need?’

There is only one answer on her lips. It echoes in your head now if you followed the steps. So, when I tell her to beg…

You know she does.

I’m back from my trip to parts of the world unknown - that’s right, I didn’t tell you. To say that I am jet lagged would be a massive understatement of truth. For the most part, however, I stuck to my American schedule, that is, I didn’t bother to sleep except on the airplane. The trip through O’hare was fun, considering that was supposed to be JFK I was flying into. I’m thinking to myself again, why not Boston?

The hot dogs in Chicago are pretty damn good. I dared eat one at the airport while I awaited my flight home. I don’t think I’ve had one in years.

I’ve missed the view outside my window. There is something relaxing about looking out of the window onto all that water - the vastness of it. There are no motor boats allowed on my side of the lake, my neighbor, quite a distance away, is a judge and doesn’t like to be woken up with the sound of early morning or late night mischief. Motor boats over here will earn you a 500$ ticket, I’m told.

I like to row out in the center of the lake and just lay back and watch night fade into day. You can see stars here that you’d never find with light-blinded eyes. Enjoy the black felt tapestry that seems within reach if you can just climb that last branch of the cottonwood tree out front. I missed the lightening bugs that dot the air, the crunch of leaves in the trees that indicate something is out there.

It’s a peace I never found in the city and while the drive is exceedingly long, while my mother whines about the distance (and I celebrate it), while the walls still remind me of N, and the voicemail still haunts with her voice, I am at home. Finally.

I always like to be involved in anything that has my name on it, even indirectly. You could say my image is important to me, in terms of my name, my stamp of approval, etc. Beyond that, I like to have control over what transpires in my life.

Money - I know it down to the cent. Every penny, how I spent it, what percentage that expense consumes out of my savings, what my interest percentage is on any loan or banking account etc.. I can tell you just by whipping out my wallet and/or PDA, what I did today, and even without those receipts, I can recall it.

• Qt’s $47.00 (gas)
• The little shop inside my building downtown $3.48 (Water, gum, etc.)
• The Keg $87.00 (Business lunch - rounded for the tip)
• Galleria $381.79 (New work shirts / My arms are so freaking long, it’s impossible to find off the rack that fits.)

I could go on, but really, it only shows just how NORMAL my life can be sometimes. The point is, I know where it all goes.

Exercise and Physical Health - I’m there. I can tell you the average calorie content of just about anything. Or at least, tell you if you should bother eating it or not. I’m good at playing with weight loss and weight gain. It’s all numbers, you see.

I review any document that leaves my hand twice, at least and I sign everything, every check, every authorization in person. I like to have that kind of hands on role in my work, with my books. I could hire other people to do these jobs, but I don’t bother….

So as I’m sitting here, balancing my checking account down to the cent, I am struck by something out of place. I don’t have a hands on approach with my relationships. N was rather able to come and go as she pleased. I didn’t outline her day, I didn’t demand to know where she was at all times.

Part of that, granted, is because she needs her freedom, and also because, were she to ask it of me, I’d have told her to kiss my ass. I’m a big believer in ‘if I wouldn’t do it, I can’t expect you to do it.’ I’ve felt damn near everything I’ve done to her - Needles, whips, suspension, belts, nails, canes, glass… razors.

I digress, the point is, I didn’t have a hands on with her. Perhaps this is because we’ve been together so long, I sort of had her, I hate this word, trained, on how to relate to me. She knew my expectations and could meet them with very few exceptions. Relationship auto pilot.

I knew I could (yes) trust N with her tasks. I didn’t check on her, I didn’t micro manage her, I simply didn’t. I left her to work, to play and to be there when I needed. I took her for granted.

She’s left and those things don’t move as smoothly. Hm. Relationship auto pilot. Sex. Work. Dinner. Sex. Work. Dinner. Sex. Work. Dinner.

As I’ve gotten older, those odd curve balls my moods would toss me into have gotten less and less. I don’t have jealous meltdowns or undirected anger. Those episodes, as destructive as they were, were equally renewing for us. We tore at each other in brutal ways, but were always scarred, but ultimately better for it. Stronger.

I don’t miss the imbalance, that isn’t what I’m saying. I doubt my ability to even conjure such a spell. I simply think that while N was quite competent and strong and capable - she still needed to be put on her knees.  Reminded just who and what I was.

I rub my temples. The pounding in my head isn’t backing down, the voices, not silenced, in spite of a grueling afternoon workout, pain killers and music being pumped into my ears. Wait, no pain killers. I count the hours until bedtime, trying to see just how long I would need to put up with the dull throb. I try to focus on the work at hand again and nothing comes to mind. I am tapped out, distracted by everything else going on.

I put my head in my hands and make a sound of disgust. Self-disgust, for being so fed up with it I couldn’t finish it. I want to stop, so badly, but I force myself to sit there, staring at the blank screen. My temper boiling under the surface. Work ethic, the heavyweight, oppresses the other desires into a pulp and it pisses me off. This all plays out under my skin, in my restless hands that did no work, but only pinch the bridge of my nose.

I am angry at myself. Arguing in my head about getting this done now or later, all the things I tell myself to get through my stubborn head when I want to quit. Divided. A potent sense of self-loathing wars with the need to be free from this fucking laptop. I think about jogging, the night air, the cool feeling of it rushing over my face, but dismiss it. I was already in bad enough shape.

Violence. I realize just how badly I need to have an outlet. I wish I understood my anger. I wish I knew just how the chemicals come together - maybe to rewire it into something healthier. I already squeeze myself tight enough to burst. I don’t think there is another drop to extract.

I ’see’ her face and I want to hurt her. Not hurt her in a sexual manner, not beat her with canes and whips, but pure physical harm. My hands. My muscles. I play the image through my head, just to see how far gone I am… watch it play out, watch the surprise erupt across her face. Watch the way her head snaps back when I hit her.

I watch the video in my head, see the blood on her lip - the way it smears across her chin. And no matter how many times I replay the image in my head, no matter how many times I greet her with the violence, I never get past it. I never do more.

As soon as her accusing eyes turn on me, I stop. I feel the acid burn my throat, feel the violence wanting more, but nothing else comes.

I remind myself that there has to be some balance. I made myself cut my jogging when I kept hurting my legs. I think this push I have to work is poisoning me in other ways.

I used to laugh. I used to not worry about everyone else’s motives. To say I don’t trust anyone would be wrong, but there isn’t a woman on the list - not even my mother.  How do you open yourself up to someone who, in all reality, has free will?

I close the laptop.  I stop working.  The beast quiets.

I had just backed myself into a corner.  Came out of it smarter and a little more peaceful - envious of those who know how to find it always.

My latest songs…

• Wasted Time (G-Mix) - Fuel
• Paralyzer - Finger Eleven
• One - Metallica
• This Moment - Disturbed
• Passion’s Killing Floor - H.I.M
• What I’ve Done - Linkin Park
• Better Than Me - Hinder
• Let her Cry - Hootie and the Blowfish
• Hey There Delilah - Plain White T’s
• Impacto (Remix) - Daddy Yankee
• Forever - Papa Roach
• The Kill - 30 Seconds from Mars
• Party Like a Rock Star - Shop Boyz
• No Me Dejes Solo - Daddy Yankee (w/Wisin &Yandel)

Passion’s Killing Floor is.. amazing. It was one of those songs that I just had to have. That’s a song to fuck too. It was nice to see something fresh from Disturbed - they need a new album soon. Metallica’s One is a classic I didn’t have. Everything else… well, I don’t understand my music tastes, so how can I expect you too?

Oh and Evans Blue’s

• Cold (but I’m still here)
• Possession
• Stop and Say you Love me

From way back when… 

‘Daemon’

I cringed when I heard my name uttered. She used it without apology, ignoring my preferred measures of address, how my friends called me, and instead opted for formality, in more than words, in tone and voice. I could see her in my head before I even turned and looked at her.

‘Yes?’ I watched her come around the desk, my end-of-term paper, that I had turned in days earlier, in her hand.

‘Do you think this is worthy of an A?’ She tossed it on the desk beside her as she leaned back against it. I ran my gaze down her body and back up. I felt a hand pat my shoulder as one of my friends left with the rest of my class - a small group of only 12. I caught his gaze and he shot me with pistols made from his hands, an adolescent gesture, but still I found myself smiling.

I looked back at her. Her eyes were hidden behind lightly tinted glasses, but I could read the appraising quality of her gaze. I watched her lip quirk at the corner as I turned back, his gesture was not lost upon her. ‘That’s really up to you, isn’t it?’ I glanced at my watch with a smile. I had hours to go before I was needed at my job, but wanted to get back to my dorm.

‘I think you are very arrogant in your presumptions. Haughty, cold.’ She glanced back at the paper on the desk and a lock of curly, brown hair fell forward over her shoulder. ‘Almost as if you look down on your subject matter rather than taking an actual measure of it.’

‘I wasn’t aware objectiveness was being measured.’ I said it flatly.

‘Neutral ground should never be surrendered until you know your footing is sure in other directions.’

‘My conclusions were sound.’

‘I meant your footing with your audience.’

‘You?’ I snorted.

‘Me.’

The sounds in the building were dying off. This was the latest class and ended well into the 9′oclock hour. The campus was slowly dying as we headed into summer. I shifted my foot from one to the other. ‘So you didn’t like it.’

‘I didn’t say that. I said you were arrogant. Almost combative, but decidedly less passionate. Snide.’

‘I stand behind it. I won’t change what I wrote.’ I stared at her and she stared back. When she reached up to take off her glasses, I arched an eyebrow. ‘So what is my grade?’ I smirked. ‘B?’

‘I failed you.’

I reached around her and pulled the paper off of her desk and opened it. I flipped through the pages, looking for red notes, the hand-written paragraphs that would explain her decision. I reached the final page and saw an A circled at the top. Written beside the grade was ‘with reluctance.’

‘Reluctance? What are you playing at?’

‘If you cared about your subject as much as you cared about your grade, the paper would have been extraordinary. They,’ she thumped my paper, ‘need to have some of that passion.’

I stared at her and then, leaning over her, dropped the paper back on the desk. I stepped closer to her, rather than away. She leaned backwards slightly to keep the distance, but my body still caged hers. I dropped my backpack to the floor. She stumbled back slightly as she misstepped in her heels. ‘Passion, huh?’

She nodded her head rapidly. I bent my head to her neck and inhaled sharply before releasing it slowly from my lungs. My hand slid around her waist and pulled her to me, my palm cupped her ass and I ground my cock into her belly. I scraped my teeth across her neck and felt a shudder vibrate down her spine.

Her arms twined around me. I heard the soft gasp of air leave her as my other hand succeeded in pulling up her skirt, pushing it around her waist. The noise came sharper when I cupped her sex and pressed the heel of my palm into her mound - grinding wet folds against her clit.

‘Passion?’

I felt her hand slide down between us, wrap around as much of my cock as she could and squeeze. A moment later my zipper, the buttons were open and my cock was being milked by her hand, my fingers buried in the slick folds of her cunt.

‘Lay back.’ I pushed her hands away from me and tore open the package of the condom. Her greedy fingers returned to roll it on me. Her panties were pushed aside, her hand pulled me forward by my cock and positioned me. I thrust and sank into her with a hot vibration of pleasure. Her bare legs wrapped around me, her ankles crossed, her heels resting against my ass.

And there, amid the empty desks of the hall, in the silence of the building, I fucked my English professor. My cock slid from her only to be pushed back in by the roll of my hips or the demands of her legs. I shoved her shirt up, loosened from the waist of her skirt and bit each of her nipples through the simple cotton lace of her bra. Her fingers laced into my hair to hold me to her breasts as we ground against one another. I could feel her tightening around me. I was sweating, dressed as I was, my jeans not even pushed down, simply opened for the pure function of sex.

She moaned. ‘Stop.’ The heels of her palms dug into my shoulders. I thrust into her again and watched her elbows weaken. ‘Stop..’

‘You don’t want me to stop.’

She squeezed me with her thighs until I was all but still. I could feel blood pulse in my cock, every beat exquisite. ‘Jesus, Malory, are we doing this, or what?’

She hissed as I shifted slightly and her legs loosened their hold on me. ‘This, this is what needs to be in your paper.’

‘Fucking?’

‘Passion.’

‘Shut up.’ I all but pulled out of her before sinking back in, pulling her hard against me. She gasped. The noises coming from her throat were tempting me, alluring in quality. The pace quickened, words, meaningless words, tumbled out of her mouth.

I pushed down her bra and sucked her nipple into my mouth. My hand sank down to where we joined, I pressed against her until she shifted uncomfortably and then did it again. She arched her back. ‘Oh shit, easy, Daemon. Easy.’

‘Fuck easy.’

I pushed her until her body gave it up in the most violent manner possible, not the easy, there was no aesthetic beauty found in the sweating, grunting and sobbing orgasm I gave her. When I came, it was explosive, almost painful, my hands dug into her skin until my fingers hurt.

Later, when things were reassembled, we looked at each other. I noticed the raw pink skin on her neck and smiled. Her lips were red, but not from my kisses, I never had kissed her.

‘I’m going to miss having you next term.’ She said, turning back to hand me the paper that had seen the entire episode and whose cover bore the marks of our fucking. ‘Bring the next one by, I’ll look over it.’

‘For passion?’

‘For passion.’

I remember sleeping, or passing out, which, at this point, all bleeds together into one fucked up soup. I startled, as if disturbed, but was slow to lift my head. I saw fingertips draw back from my forehead. My eyes hurt. I haven’t been sleeping again - which is to say, I don’t make it back to my bed anymore.

Confusion, I remember that too, as I tried to focus on the numbers in the right hand corner of my screen. 3:01. I had only been out minutes. I rubbed my eyes. They ached, protested the beams of light my open eyelids afforded them. I couldn’t shake the double vision. I blinked, and forced my aching body to sit up in the chair. I felt the impression of the keys in my cheek and slid my palm across it.

Fingers. I turned my head. My brow knitted. ‘N?’

‘Don’t do this to yourself.’

‘What?’ I’m confused. Something isn’t fitting right with the puzzle. My mind is sluggish. I rub my temples. ‘I-I’ll be up soon. Let me finish up.’ I mumbled it into my palms as they slid across my face. ‘Soon.’

I can’t place the pieces, no matter how badly I might want too. It felt like a weight was on my mind, forcing it to work harder for information. Her fingertips slid across my scalp. I looked back at the monitor. There was only a little more to go. A thought started to form in my mind, an elusive idea, pure genius, just a little more…

‘Let me in.’

My fist crashed down on the counter…

My eyes fly open and I sit ramrod straight, looking around me. I stare widely at my reflection in the glass of my windows. I scrub my hands over my eyes and focus on the computer screen a moment later. 3:43.

‘I need to sleep.’ I tell myself, closing the cover on my laptop. I strip going up the stairs, tossing clothing down behind me carelessly. I fall into my bed and give a satisfied sound as the cool sheets welcome me. I feel like my skin is burning.

I am almost asleep when I feel her fingertips on my scalp, and I don’t care if it’s real or a lie; I welcome either.