Morsel

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

I close the bathroom door, then notice a new sign next to the handle. Do Not Enter, it says. Like someone waited for me to go inside, then switched the sign once the door was shut.

Our bathtub hand job had to be a piece of performance art. That’s the only way to explain it. She posted a personal ad and used me like another sculpture in her gallery. It was only a stage show where I had no idea I was a prop.

My facial muscles twitch. The little bitch played with me like I was her food.

I rub the back of my neck before digging my nails into my own flesh. That wasn’t what I wanted. I’m a stupid, stupid idiot for letting her use me like that.

Tsk tsk, Mona’s imaginary voice coos. You were willing. You wanted me.

“Fuck this,” I growl.

I stomp toward the gallery exit. There are probably double-sided mirrors in that bathroom and a stadium full of her pretentious fans on the other side, laughing at me. My gut churns like I’m nine years old again with a bowl of cereal and spoiled milk, hoping that if I eat it, my mother will be happy.

Mona is dismissive like my mother, isn’t she?

Despite those threatening thoughts, I stop in front of the exit door.

There’s a chance I will never find a woman who shares interests again. And I can’t fuck that up for some ego-driven tantrum.

Fine. I can do this.

I whip around and head to the open bar. I grab a beer off of the countertop and chug it like it’s the last swigs of expired protein shakes in the pantry, the last chance I have at a meal for the unforeseen future. I signal the bartender for another, then I grab the second bottle.

The gallery is full of people who know art. Who care about art. Who don’t have to worry about where their next meal is coming from, or whether or not they’ll find a true connection with another human being. I’m not like these people. I don’t belong here. I know that.

I also know that I need to calm down.

Control yourself, I repeat internally. A woman like Mona is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Even if she was using me for her performance art, there aren’t many people who would even pretend to indulge in something like sexual cannibalism. For fuck’s sake, she told me to eat every last bite of her. And with the way I ran out of there like a scared little boy who came too fast, I probably ruined my chances already. She probably thinks I’m a little bitch or something.

“‘Thanks for a good time’,” I mock myself. “How stupid can you be?”

I take a long swig of the second beer, then ponder my next move. The art pieces blur around me, and it’s like being in the middle of a grocery store, except instead of branded product boxes, you’re left trying to guess what’s inside. Eat blue. Eat red. Eat green. Eat white. The colors swirl until my mind can’t stop fixating on that word: Eat. Eat. Eat.

Eat me, she said. Eat every piece of me until there’s nothing left.

I can’t let this be a one-time thing.

“Marvelous, isn’t it?” a male voice asks.

In my periphery, a man with long hair stands next to me. His dark gray ponytail trails down his back.

“Violence,” the man says.

My nostrils flare. Shallow wrinkles crowd his temples. He’s older than me, maybe in his mid-to-late forties. A leather jacket dominates his thin frame, making him look like a half-starved rooster. I recognize him, though I’m not sure why. Maybe when I was researching Mona, he was in the background of one of the pictures. A loyal super fan or something.

I turn back to the “marvelous” art in front of me. I don’t really see it.

“The devastating hunger for total power that lurks within all of us,” he continues. “The need and desire to conquer the weak through sex.”

I grunt, my only attempt at conversation. He angles himself toward me.

I don’t face him this time. I don’t want to.

“What do you see?” he asks.

Jagged mirrors cover the surface of a dog kennel and a twin bed. Puzzle pieces of my reflection stare back at me: my strong jaw, my clean-shaven cheeks and chin, my muscular neck and shoulders, my dark blue eyes. A tan wallet covered in the same mirror scraps lies on top of the structure.

It’s a bunch of junkyard scraps.

I don’t see the same things other people see. Art is supposed to represent emotion and deep, intellectual thought; I don’t have the patience for that. Art is just colors and textures. Or garbage, I guess.

I don’t say any of that out loud. The man seems like the kind of person who would repeat my words to Mona, and even though I don’t like being used in her little bathtub show, I find myself desperately wanting for a second chance with her. I don’t want her to hate me yet.

“I see mirrors,” I say.

“No, my friend. Look beyond that,” the man says. “Look inside the cage.”

Cage? Not a dog kennel?

I crouch down and peer inside. Another mannequin, this time with a faceless expression, is positioned in a crawl. Dirt paints the plastic in wide strokes, and chains wrap around the object’s neck and body.

Mona wore a metal leash like that in her personal ad, and there are so many possibilities for human food preparation with strong chains, like hanging the carcass in a walk-in freezer. I can’t say that out loud though. This man doesn’t need to know about Mona’s and my sexual interests.

“It’s just mirrors, man,” I say.

He chuckles like I said something funny, and a gnawing irritation creeps in my jaw, itching to slit his throat on the broken glass and see how much he likes eating those fucking mirrors.

“That’s the interesting thing about it. We see what we want to see,” he says. He scrutinizes the sculpture like it’s that one asshole’s painting of the Last Supper. “You see mirrors. I see the lines,” he continues. “The cuts. The spiteful layers. The way our own image slices through reality and creates something new. Something chaotic and frightening. Something we must keep inside.”

“Arty!” a woman shouts.

Though the voice is too low to be Mona’s, I swing around like she’ll be there with wet hair and pink bath water pooling on the floor beneath her.

Brown hair. Brown eyes. Not Mona. Someone forgettable.

They kiss each other’s cheeks. “Gorgeous as ever,” the man says. His name is Arty, I guess.

“Mona is doing so well, isn’t she?” the woman says.

“Surpasses every bar, every time.”

“Agreed.”

The woman glimpses in my direction, a coyish smile aimed at me. I smile back. I often have that effect on women. They want me.

Then she steps closer to Arty, like she doesn’t want me to hear their conversation, and I get the sense that even if I’m attractive, she’s afraid of offending me. Like she’s scared. I narrow my eyes, heightening that primal power over her, pride flooding my veins in an overwhelming heat.

Suddenly, I break myself away from them. If she’s one of Mona’s friends and she wants privacy, I’ll give it to her.

“I hate to do this to you, but can you walk me to my car?” she whispers. “After seeing this—what these women go through—I don’t want to walk alone. I figure the boogeyman inspiration can scare away any creepy jerk.”

“Boogeyman creator, ” the man corrects her. “Of course, I’ll protect you. You don’t have to ask me twice.” He turns to me and shakes my hand with a surprisingly firm grip. “It was nice speaking with you.”

I grip his hand back harder. His posture never changes, as if my show of dominance doesn’t bother him.

He links arms with the woman, and as they walk away, her words repeat in my mind: what they go through.

Who was she talking about?

There’s probably a plaque explaining the exhibit somewhere. I don’t care enough to ask. Instead, I stare at the mirrors again. The junkyard scraps. The pieces of trash. There must’ve been a mirror in the bathroom too. I don’t remember seeing it though. As soon as I stepped past that oversized door, I was fixated on Mona.

Her body. Her flesh.

I’m not a cannibal. It’s wrong to eat people, and I know that. If anyone finds out you ate any part of a human, you’ll live your life in jail. You can’t eat other people in prison for long before they put you in solitary. Anyway, eating other men doesn’t interest me; their meat is too firm, and I’ve never been into autocannibalism.

But there’s a part of me that’s always been fascinated by the idea of eating a woman. As haunting as she may seem, a woman like Mona is attractive, and that makes her meat even better.

I stop by the bathroom. The sign has been replaced with one that reads, Vacant. Inside, the candles are blown out. The tub is empty. The floor is dry.

She’s done, then. She’s not waiting for anyone else who answered her ad.

It was all for me.

Me.

Warmth dances in my lower stomach. I don’t know why I like that. After years of solitude, I guess it’s comforting to know that even if it was an art performance, she did it for me. And that lets me entertain the idea that my little meat hole wants to be eaten by me. Only me.

I finish the beer, then take a final scan around the gallery to search for her. A crowd surrounds her like pillars guarding a prized treasure. She tells them an animated tale. Her cheeks are flushed, still cooling from the bath.

She locks eyes with me and lifts her hand, her fingers rippling slightly. A wave. An acknowledgement. I nod back as warmth blooms in my chest.

I…want…more.

I motion her over, and like a good pet, she comes to me. That inner heat settles firmly within my torso. I take a deep breath, and the inhalation draws her into my very soul, a boiling scalding essence which is as much a part of me as my cum is now a part of her.

“Did you enjoy the show?” she asks.

Old bath water, wine, and sweat waft from her skin, and I want to lick every inch of her. Drink every drop. Eat every bite until there’s nothing left.

I want to devour her.

“You’re even more handsome in the light,” she purrs.

My jaw tightens. My mother may not have given me much, but I’ve got her dark blue eyes, clear skin, and tall height, and that means I’m attractive to most women. On top of that, I’ve got short, golden-brown hair women seem to like running their fingers through. I’m muscular too; men think twice about fighting me, and sexually submissive women like Mona find my physical power appealing. It helps that I keep my carbs down, concentrate on protein, and workout in the field whenever I have extra energy. I’ve never been more grateful for my appearance than right now, and if that’s what draws Mona to me, then I’ll have to thank my dead mother later.

“I have to see you again,” I say. “Where can I find you?”

She smirks, and that sly expression guts me, like I’m the pig and she’s the butcher in charge of my carcass. I want to smash into her body, my dick like a knife, killing her and fucking her at the same time.

No—I want to fuck her vagina with a knife until it’s pulp, then eat it like it’s a bolognese.

“Come to my office tomorrow,” she says.

Not her studio. Her office. That means at the university. Earlier this week, I sat in on one of her lectures and kept myself hidden in the back row. I can’t tell her that though. I don’t want to scare her.

“Where’s your office?” I ask.

She laughs, then brushes my shoulder with her fingertips.

“You’ll find me,” she says. “Won’t you, love?”

My body flames. She passes me, her ass shimmying with each step, and I lick my lips. Her rump is round, bigger than her breasts are, and I have this gut instinct that her ass will taste like a honey-glazed ham.

She returns to her adoring fans, and it isn’t lost on me that she dismissed me again. This time though, I asked for a second chance.

And she granted it.