I'm home alone. It's 3am. I should have been in bed hours ago. I'm tired enough lately, I could have slept at any time. Instead, I've been goofing off, watching cartoons, and painting my nails. I've been sneaking into the liquor cabinet. No kids, no adults, no one but me. Responsibility has gone out the window. I feel silly for being this way. Still, times like this are more frequent than I admit. Times when all the rule-keepers and consequence-bearers are absent, and I go a little crazy. I secretly want that enforcement. I want help keeping me in line. I want someone to remind me what I need, and help me do it when I get distracted. I miss my Daddy. Bedtimes, and stories, and cuddles til I fall asleep. Chores, and rules, and schedules to keep. I feel a little lost without them. I can be responsible. I can be a grown up. I can take care of all the important things all by myself. I'm confused right now, I suppose. I don't know if I'm supposed to be strong and independent, or if I'm supposed to give in to these feelings. Do you want to see how much I need you? Do you want to fill that empty role? Or is it just sexy pretend that I ought to snap out of when our clothes go on? I can function just fine either way. This uncertainty is messy. And so is the kitchen. Lips lightly parted, breath coming in a silent pant, saliva flowing. A creature of shadow and night, feeding on the weakness of men. Stalking the day-creatures with her eyes. The hunt is. Freeing. The kill satisfying in a way that no other achievement can give. Sex is more than pleasurable. Sex is filling. It's been so long. Inside, she surges with power. Senses heighten until she can feel the difference between a man and a woman from around the corner. Some of these bear her mark -- something akin to a psychic scent. These are the ones she has brushed against, yowling inside like a cat in heat. Her eyes snap to the open doorway as her scent nears. It takes every ounce of strength inside of her to dismiss this one as prey. Even a demon knows not to bloody the waters she must daily swim. 'I've got to get out more,' she thinks. The need has been building. If she doesn't find a victim soon, no one will be safe. 'I'm so hungry.' Daddy Wrote: This is hard to write, but I am going to attempt it. I used to be able to say that I have never struck anyone in anger. I can't say that anymore, for I have done it now. I grew up thinking that doing this was something I would never do. My sisters dad beat the shit out of my mom, all the time. She couldn't have a discussion with him without getting struck. I hated him for it. It was the wrong thing to do. She is way smaller than him. He pushed her around, intimidated her. So I did everything I could to not be that guy, not use my size and strength to hurt, to scare. The other night wifey and I were having an argument. The reason for the argument doesn't matter for this post, but she has a tendency to get frustrated and become violent sometimes. So that's what she did. Got frustrated and hit me. I usually just let her, and the argument usually gets worse after that. This time I did something different. She punched me in the chest, so I punched her in the chest. Before she could react to that, I slapped her in the face, pretty hard. It scared me. I sat on the bed shocked with myself. Feeling really shitty. I felt like that guy, and I was telling myself how much of a piece of shit I was. The argument lost its intensity, and we went for a walk and talked about it calmly. She thanked me for slapping her. I almost cried right there. It meant so much for me to have her say that. I don't like that I did it, but it was a positive considering what could have happened. I am beginning to think that if I keep control of myself I may be able to use this as a diffusing tool and not beat myself up for it and it could be a good thing. As fucked up as it sounds it feels true. My Side: I freaked, and I lashed out. I was hysterical and nothing that happened in that state of mind would have solved the issue we were trying to discuss. Except one thing. I don't remember the punch. Reading this, I have a vague memory of an impact -- a shove, maybe, but nothing devastating. I do remember being slapped. It wasn't pleasant. It wasn't sexy. It was, however, the shock I needed to come back to earth. Reality. This isn't a man who hurts me just because he's pissed. I wanted to thank him right away, but I waited. I know how much it must have scared him to do what he did. Sometimes. The right thing doesn't feel right. I think that as wrong as he may feel about it, it is a tool. An effective one. And, while I hope that someday I can curb my irrational self-defense mechanism(s), it's nice to know that there are things we can do until then. We had discussed it before, but I wasn't prepared when it happened. He had fucked me while she watched. This wasn't new. I was playing with her, helping her ease the tension after watching. Nothing new for us there, either. Then he set me on my back, and her over me, 69-fashion. And that was new. He asked if I would be okay like that. I don't recall whether it was before or after the rustling noise, but I will assume it was before. The rustling, I knew, was the opening of a new box of condoms. My heart flipped a little. It was dark. I couldn't see as he slipped inside, but I could feel it happen, just above my face. I arched my neck for opportunities to lick them both.