Iím left to myself again, alone in this room with its pale walls and speckled, polished floor. Iím here with my blue chair, stiff plastic designed to make a body ache if one does not shift consistently. Iíd like to get up, pace the room, run my hands through my hair and tug as hard as I can so I know this isnít a dream.
But getting up from this chair isnít an option. No. I must sit here, shifting against cold plastic, waiting, wanting, feet planted on the ground.
Iím left to my imagination. I wonder what the room would look like painted green, carpeted, a couch pressed against the far wall and a few pictures hanging by the door. The door, I think, should stay white to symbolize what this room used to represent and still can if precautions are not taken.
I wonder what my toes would look like painted red. Bright red. It would add a little contrast against my bare skin and the pale floor.
I shift, missing the warmth I had known moments before. Those fingers that had tangled through my hair and the lips that claimed mine, strong fingers, trained so that they could be the softest, most provoking presence, or the harshest.
In my mind we are kissing, and you canít help but want what I have to offer you just as I need what you have to give me. We slip into oblivion together, unconscious of everything other than each other. My fingers feel your body as yours torture mine.
I shift, letting eyes wander to the square of the room where you installed a mirror. I can see how desperate I am, it reeks off of my body like perspiration. My eyes are wide and sharp, green. My hair is loose, messy, tousled over my shoulders, dirty brown. My body arches, and I watch the curve of my back lift from the chair, the welts youíve given me are barely visible from this distance, this angle, but their burn is a reminder, especially when they collide with the cool plastic of my chair. And I know youíre watching too.
You know I hate this. This room. This chair. What have I done to be treated so? Iíll take pain, Iíll take torture, but this room. I hate this room. Itís so white, so bland. Itís like a cell and Iím left alone wanting to touch, wanting to wander, but youíre watching me and I canít get up from that chair. I canít release this urge. All I can do is stare into that mirror, pretending your eyes are where mine are, hoping my desperate, fixed look will show you how sorry I am. How much I need to be out of this room. I have to beg with my eyes and my body because my lips are not permitted to move, not for speech anyway.
Several minutes later I hear your hand at the door. It isnít locked, it canít lock, I could have left any time I wanted, but I didnít, because you wouldnít like it if I did. My eyes fall to your boots, and I can feel your weight around my neck. You touch me without touching me, and Iím reminded of the day you slipped your name around my throat and claimed me as your own.
ďWas your stay that pleasant? That you smile so?Ē
I shake my head, squirming with the urge to feel you against my skin.
ďMm. Fantasizing, dear?Ē
I nod, bashful. I can hear your smile and my heart sinks as you pull back from the doorway, afraid youíll close it and walk away, leaving me to myself again. Leaving me to my fantasies. Leaving me to my own caress, wishing it was yours.
ďCome, I want to hear what you've been thinking about.Ē
My heart skips, suddenly I feel as cold as the chair, frozen in place, too thrilled and terrified to move, then hot enough to melt the thing to the floor. I can taste my anticipation and nearly lose myself in it.
I wouldnít want to make you wait.