H is an artist with a cable reality TV show, building machines. I know that if nothing else, meeting him will make for a good story.
Our first date is at Korova Milk bar in the east village. It is a steamy, rainy night. I walk up to H and notice that he is a big man, with broad shoulders, long dreads, and scars. He is wearing dirty leather pants and his wet shirt clings to his broad chest. He grabs me firmly and lifts me up off the ground, squeezing me tight as he kisses me hello. I am vibrating. I am in trouble. Still holding me, he tells me that I am beautiful and that he loves my swampy green eyes and full body.
We sit in the back of the bar and he sips a tonic and gropes my thick denim covered thigh under the table. I tell him that I have no intention of having sex with him, but my body is deceiving me. H is getting me wet and flushed with his words and his touch. I think he can tell, because he seems that aware of me, which is turning me on even more. We leave the bar and he walks me home, careful to walk on the outside of me on sidewalk.
At my apartment door I negotiate with him that he can come in for 20 minutes of a high school style make out session, clothes on. He leaves when the time is up with a raging hard on and a pained look on his face. I am rumpled and writhing against the doorjamb, doubting my decision to let him go. I want to call him back up and have him tear off my clothes and fuck me hard. But, I don’t have to wait long. Lacking in all self-discipline, I invite him back two nights later to finish what we started.
He instructs me to leave the door unlocked, and to be on my bed in a pair of thigh high stiletto boots, a corset, and no panties. He stalks in, sweeps me up, and bends me over the side of the bed. Still dressed, and standing behind me, he slides into my pussy in one hard thrust, his hand wrapped in my hair, his face at my ear telling me to open up and give it to him. He pounds me hard, pins my arms tightly behind my back with one of his strong hands, his other hand leaves my hair and wraps tightly around my neck. He groans seductively, “you’re a big girl, but you’re solid”. I am momentarily mortified, but the validation of my own self-loathing while being fucked hard fuels my passion for him even more.
Things go on like this for weeks. He asks me to leave my door open and be ready in the outfit of his choice. He sneaks in and fucks me violently, but like he loves me. Sometimes he comes over and we watch him on TV while he fucks me bent over the couch.
A few months later H disappears. He doesn’t show up for our ritual night. I am gutted. He is my drug, and withdrawal hurts. By chance I flip on NY1 and am greeted with H’s mug shot on my screen and a scrolling newsreel that reads “local industrial artist arrested for terrorism”.
H Blew up one side of his face with a confetti gun meant for a public art stunt. When the cops and ambulances came, they found sawed off AK47’s, ammo, and all sorts of bad goodies in his illegal art workshop in Brooklyn. Being that it is right after 9/11, He goes to the hospital handcuffed to the bed and then on to Jail, as a terror suspect.
Like a dutiful slut, I let him fuck me again when he gets out of jail a month later, despite his bloody eye patch and wired shut jaw.