The Second Time

The second time he touched me was after I swore it wouldn’t happen again, yet I found myself in his home and following him to the bedroom. Unlike the ravenous beast I had unleashed from years of being pent up during our first encounter on my friend’s couch, this time he was slower, gentler. He took his time and touched me everywhere. We made love to Beethoven and held each other after. He fell asleep and I still wasn’t sure how I felt, except that I couldn’t say no to him or to the way it felt to have his every last shred of attention and approval. Being worshipped by a man is a dangerous thing, and I had already become addicted to it.



He told me that he’s been watching me since I was young. He told me he would spy on me, steal looks, get close just to touch me. Instead of being appalled, I felt sad that I never knew. If I had known he was spying on me changing in the pool shed, watching from the window me braless in my room, or touching himself to me late at night, I would have teased him out of his mind.

The First Time

The first time he touched me was on my best friend’s couch while she was away and I was house sitting. I promised her I wouldn’t have anyone over, but texting him led to an invitation. She still doesn’t know and if I have my way never will.