Change Will Do You Good
There are some things in life you will never forget.
For as long as you live, the black of Her eyes will color everything you see. Her voice, Her laugh, will echo in your quiet moments, a sound your ears will always strain to hear in a crowd. And Her touch.
Her touch.
How could anything compete with something you still can’t quite understand? How could the grip of Her hands, so tight and unforgiving on your wrists — on your ankles, on your throat, on your heart — feel both possessive and freeing at the same time? How could the bite of Her teeth, the lick of Her tongue, and the suck of Her mouth devour you whole, while feeding something deep within? How could the dig of Her nails feel like they were tearing into your skin to get to your soul?
That’s not something easily left behind. But, if the last year without her has taught you anything, you must learn how or you will never move forward.
So answer the ad.
Tell yourself it’s just a joke — a dare — if you have to. A shape-changing sex worker. It couldn’t be real. Could it? Do it anyway.
When you get an answer back, don’t flinch at the sound of her voice on the other line. Don’t stumble and stutter through her questions. This is what you’ll want; remember that. But don’t beat yourself up when you fail. You’re not perfect and you’ll be fairly sure, by her knowing tone and calm patience, she’ll have probably heard worse.
When you schedule a time to meet — at a café near her that you’ve never been to and is filled with far too many people for your liking — show up. Don’t hide at home, curled up with the ghosts of your past. No matter how comforting that sounds. If you can, try to look like you want to be there. You want to be there.
Be prepared, when you see her; it will hit you hard.
You’ll have chosen that ad because, while you supposed it doesn’t really matter if a shape-changer looks like Her — no one could look like Her — there’s something about the flash of teeth in her smile or the glint of her eyes that reminds you of a memory that your mind cannot let go.
When she wants to negotiate, be an adult and do it. Don’t just tell her to do whatever she wants. Or at least don’t wonder why she frowns when you do. Definitely don’t try to read the second thoughts that flash like red flags through her eyes. When she looks at you incredulously and asks if you have any limits, pause. Take the time to think about it.
Because you do.
As the past burns your skin like a brand, tell her. Be unbearably open. “I just need something to change.” Living like this is your limit.
She’ll look at you, her dark eyes distant and sharp as a saber. “I’m not a shrink. Or a doctor. I can’t fix you. No problem you have right now in your life can be solved in-scene.”
You’ll know that. You may not want to, but you will. Shrug. “I’ve been to therapy and doctors. Had them check me up and down. Inside and out.” Turns out, they can’t fix you either. You will learn that, after endless tests that inevitably come up inconclusive or end in trite if well-meaning advice — exercise, diet, talk — that won’t help. Whatever. “That’s not what this is about.”
She will arch a perfectly shaped eyebrow at you. “Then what is it about?”
Think about this. This is important. Drop your gaze and focus inward, mentally touching all the empty space within. Don’t be afraid; be more honest with her than you’ve ever been, even with yourself. “Learning how to live with being broken.”
You’ll hold your breath, while she thinks. You’ll wonder what you hope her answer will be. When she nods, you’ll know for sure. “I can work with that.” This will make you nervous. Will make it all feel real. Good. At least you’re feeling something.
Set a date, a time, and a place to meet. Excitement will mix with terror in the moment. It will feel oddly comforting. Triggering a part of your brain that has been craving something it couldn’t name. That feeling will sustain you, consume you, for the days to come.
When the day arrives, don’t show up an hour early; it’ll look desperate and obvious as you sit in your car in the empty parking lot, the hot sun cooking you slowly. You’ll wait with an anxious foot tapping in time to your racing thoughts next to the gas pedal as you choke on the scent of your own anxiety. Don’t do that to yourself.
“You cannot control the world,” your therapist always tells you, “just how you choose to live in it.”
So choose to live in it.
Because, want all you want, the past cannot come back. Try all you might, but you can’t hold a ghost.
She is gone and you need to find out who you are without Her.
So enter the dusky motel. Count the room numbers until you find hers. Knock. Then hurry inside. Not necessarily because you’re eager to get started, but because standing out in the open will make you feel exposed.
As the door shuts behind you, you’ll see her, seated at the room’s small table, a steaming cup of sweet-smelling tea in her hand. Join her. When she looks at you sternly, meet and keep her gaze. Until you can’t. When the weight of it makes yours falter, don’t feel bad. “Have you been good?”
Her rules.
Squirm.
You’ll have followed her rules — too afraid not to — but it will have been hard.
You may hate porn. But you need it.
When She’d ended things, you lost everything. Your home — because how could you stay in the same space that you’d shared — and your heart. For a long time, for longer than you’ll want to admit, you lost the ability to function, dragging your body around like a zombie from bed to work and back. You won’t want to remember the long stretches of days where you barely made eye contact with anyone, your coworkers and fellow commuters uncomfortably aware of your aching soul. With each passing day, you noticed the berth they gave you widening as they silently and collectively waited for the broken bits of you to blow away, finally unburdening them.
The only solace you’ve had is porn. It lured you in and made you feel less alone, less unhappy, at a time in your life when you had next to no one in your life. It’s been your escape from a world that has done its best to make you feel unwanted. The doe-eyed digital performers with perfect proportions look at you with want and welcome. Each pixelated pant and moan feels like coming home.
Until even porn, like everything else in the world, betrayed you.
Be honest; you should have seen it coming. There were signs that, in hindsight, should have scared you. When you spent hours scouring sites to find images and videos, looking for Her — for women with eyes or mouths or hips or asses that made you think of Her, who you could superimpose the smell and taste and feel of Her onto — you should have known something was wrong. When you lost entire nights and huge chunks of your days to the online hunt of Her, you ought to have paused and pondered at the path you were taking.
You let it take over your life. Let it become an obsession. Let it become bigger than the rest of you.
Be afraid.
Let that fear lead you here. Like you’d said, you came for a change.
So look into her eyes and tell the truth. “Yes.”
Before she’d left you last time, she’d told you to stop. No more porn. No more fantasizing and fetishizing the past. No more Her. Not forever. “Just until you can control your desires, instead of them controlling you.”
It won’t have been easy. Your body — your heart, your soul — will revolt. Will want what it cannot — what it should not — have. You will feel lost without it. You will ache for it. Inside, you’ll feel your desire, like this rigid, raw, ravenous thing. It will feel larger, harder, more powerful, than you. You will wonder what harm one — or one more or just one more — time could do.
Stay strong. Because, even if it doesn’t feel like it now, her rules have to be better than where you’ve been. You’ve been unhealthy with it, with Her, for too long and even you must realize you’ll never move on, if you let yourself keep falling. “I wanted to, but I didn’t break my word.”
Her eyes will soften and a smile will tug at her lips. “Good.” And, in her, you’ll see something familiar, something you never thought you would again. Something inside will loosen, even as your body tightens. “Very good.” She’ll cross her legs and stare at you over her teacup. “Are you sure you want this?”
Her tone will be serious. Take it seriously.
“I’m not Her.” She won’t need to say it. Lord knows, you know. “Trying to replace Her with me in your mind isn’t going to end well for either of us.”
Nod. You know. Lord knows. “You do remind me of Her.” She knew that, of course. That’s why you chose her. “But that’s kinda the point.” You’ve carried the memory of Her with you for so long. Felt it weigh on your mind, your heart, your body, for so long. “I need to find...” What’s the word? “Boundaries.” You’ll need to build walls. “Between Her and me.” You know it’s a strange request. But none of us get to choose what we need. “I don’t want you to replace Her; I want you to release me from Her.”
She’ll nod before pushing the cup of tea your way. “Then drink.”
Do it. Let the earthy taste of it linger on your tongue and cling to your throat. Close your eyes and drink deep, listening to her laugh. “You know, usually I help people get their rocks off by indulging their fantasies. I’ve never tried to rid someone of them.”
Carefully place the cup on its saucer. “I appreciate any help I can get.” Shrug and watch while she takes the cup from you. “I just want to feel normal again.” Close your eyes when she sips from your tea, the act feeling odd and intimate, ancient as a ritual.
She’ll laugh harder. “You may have picked the wrong ad to answer then.”
Curious, open your eyes. And, somehow, some way, see Her. Look into Her eyes. She’ll reach out Her hand to you. “Come with me.”
Take it.
You’ll have no choice. You would follow Her anywhere She wants to take you. Especially to the room’s bed, plain and firm but more than serviceable. “How is this possible?”
“You already know.”
Your stomach will clench at the sound of Her voice. You’ll shake your head, trying to clear it. You’ll swear it can’t be real. It can’t.
“Say it.”
Magic.
Except you won’t believe in it.
“Say it!”
You do.
She’ll smile. “Good.” She’ll stand up and walk around you, dissecting you with Her gaze. “Strip and lay down.”
Do it. Without question, let your desire overpower your doubt. At Her mere words, you will feel naked in front of Her, in a way that no amount of clothes can change. So peel yours off, layer after layer. Don’t be frightened when you feel small, vulnerable. Everything will be heightened, making denim and cotton feel like flesh, flayed while you peel it down your limbs.
Once actually nude, you will feel different. Raw and ragged. Crawling onto the bed, you will feel reborn. You’ll shiver as the sheets rub against your skin. Close your eyes and imagine what, after so long without Her, Her touch will feel like.
You’ll hear Her chuckle at your shaky need. Her footsteps on the carpet will pound in your heart. Look up at Her. She will stand at the foot of the bed, tall and looming. “Who am I?”
Unsure, you’ll raise an eyebrow at Her. You’ll wonder what She’s talking about.
“Tell me.”
You will learn. Your tongue will tickle, the taste of the tea tingling. That sensation will reach inside you and pull words from your throat as you tell Her who She is. She is a miracle and a nightmare. She will grab your ankle, digging Her nails into your flesh. She is your every dream, good, bad, and ephemeral as hell. Those menacing, manicured hands will claw and climb up your leg, leaving long, red scratches on your skin, marking you as Hers. You’ll want to touch Her and be touched by Her. She will grab your hips, digging Her grip as She climbs onto the bed between your legs. You’ll want to take Her and be taken.
She’ll reach up and grab your chin, forcing you to look at Her. “Who am I?”
The only woman you’ve ever loved.
“Am I?”
Your eyes will widen while She begins to change. Try to recoil, but She won’t let you go. Won’t let you look away.
“Who am I?”
You’ll shrink in Her grasp, held still as Her smile widens and Her dark eyes blink to blue. Her body will swell, filling out in places beneath Her clothes. Slight wrinkles will slash across Her skin near Her eyes and mouth. Dear God.
“Who am I?”
Your eighth grade teacher. Her name, that you won’t have thought about in years, will fall from your lips like stony truth. Stuck in the clutches of prepubescent hormones and awkwardness, you’d been so in love with her. She’d been so sure you were cheating, scoring high on tests and homework, but failing miserably whenever called on in class. It hadn’t been that you couldn’t do the work but, the minute she spoke to you, your brain would stall. She was too beautiful, too smart, and too kind, always treating you like you mattered, like everyone was — like you were — special. So young and inexperienced, how could you not have loved her?
“You love me?”
You had. Once. As much as an eighth grader could, which will feel both more pure and less real than love does today. You’ll close your eyes and lose yourself in the memory when she leans in to kiss you gently on the forehead.
Your body will tense and panic when you feel her hand on your cock.
“Shhh. It’s cool.”
You will know that voice.
Open your eyes.
You’ll look into the face of your college girlfriend, who wore her long, black hair in severe, high ponytails and always wore cherry-flavored lip gloss. She’d been your first, well, everything. Your first girlfriend. Your first sight of a naked woman. Your first blowjob. Your first lover.
“Did you love me?”
Yes. You’ll look at her now, right into the brazen face she boldly wore to mask the tender insecurity she carried inside. You’d loved her; part of you always will.
Let her hand move over you, move you. Feel her fumble with the condom, her hands eager but unsure. Close your eyes again and remember what it felt like to love like that. When everything was new and unknown. When for now felt like forever. When you feel the slick slide of cherry-flavored lip balm slip smooth and sloppy down your dick, enjoy it. Moan her name. Hitch your hips and coat your length in drugstore cosmetics and her. Remember her.
Cry out when she sinks her nails in your thigh, bringing you back from your past. Look down and watch your memory melt into Her. Her dark eyes will glare at you, cold and hungry. Her smile will look self-satisfying and sharp. She won’t ask you if you love Her. She already knows.
Instead, She will climb atop you, straddling your hips so She can ride this body beneath Her that She’s already claimed as Hers. You will hate that you love Her while She slides your hard length inside Her. Hate that She still has such a hold over you.
But, as She rides you, feel it. Really feel it and know that it’s different than it has been. Don’t be afraid. Or disappointed. Understand that within this love, you’ll feel the echoes of all the others that came before. Having felt the fuel, the fire, and, yes, the fade of those loves, recognize it now. Even in Her.
When She grips your thighs to undulate over you, grip Her hips too. Dig your fingers deep. Hold tight to Her and know that, want all you want, but this too will fade. As all ghosts must.
Watch while She flickers, fluttering into someone else. For a moment, She’ll look strange, like a familiar flash of someone you ought to know, before She settles into her. This magical shape-shifter who both feels like every woman in the world yet still singularly and uniquely her.
Grab her hips and thrust into her. Let the pleasure of you — of you and her together — build and burn. Ride her as she rides you. And, when you hear her come, pour everything you are — everything you have been and the promise of what you could be — into her.
Then hold her. Pull her limp, slick, soft form to you and wrap grateful arms around her. Kiss her and imagine that you can taste your whole life on her lips.
But, most of all, thank her.
When it’s finally time to get up, to leave, put on your clothes and take out your wallet. Pay her and tip well. Very well. She was kind, generous, and miraculous. You don’t know quite what you’d been expecting when you’d started all this, but she far surpassed any expectations you could have had.
As you tie your shoes, ask her if you’ll see her again.
“Do you need to?”
Maybe not. “But I might like to.”
She’ll smile at you. “Well, you know where to find me.”
True enough.
But, before you leave, ask her the question that’s been bugging you for the past few minutes. “At the end, before the glamour dropped, you transformed into my cubemate from work.” You’ll shake your head, confused. “Why?”
She’ll quickly tuck your money into her purse and look at you innocently. “I don’t know. The tea’s spell reads your mind and tells me what to look like — how to sound and act — through the link.” She’ll shrug. “So you tell me.”
Your brow will wrinkle. “She’s just a coworker. A work friend, at most.”
She’ll grab her purse in her hand and shoot you a knowing look. “I’m not the one you have to convince.”
You suppose not. You’ll think of your coworker with her windblown pixie cut and warm, grey eyes. You’ll think of her brown bag lunches and rainbow of glitter pens kept in a chipped mug on her desk. You’ll think of her laugh and the way her nose crinkles when she smiles or is trying to remember something. You’ll think of coffee breaks and lunches that never seem long enough. You’ll think about how she always slaps your hand away when you try to steal a taste of her chips or treats. And the way her eyes fire when making a point with a client or colleague. You’ll remember the way her voice sounds when she argues with you, ruthless and right. And you’ll feel a familiar feeling.
You won’t love her. Not yet.
But, maybe, if it’s meant, you might.
Nod at that thought and smile.
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