The Me That I Became

by Christopher Harlan

  I give him the signal to keep going with my eyes, and in seconds my shirt is sitting next to his on the floor. We undress some more, me completely naked and him only in his underwear, and he covers me with his massive body as I fall to my back, anticipating all the things that are coming next. I feel his weight over me, and his tongue thrusts into my mouth once again as his hand explores every inch of me. He cups my naked breast—my nipples hard against the gentle rub of his thumb. My whole body feels more sensitive than it ever has before, and his body feels like it’s magnetized to mine.

  His strong hand runs down the length of my body as he kisses me even deeper, from the base of my calf all the way back up to my cheek. My face feels small in his hands, and every section of my skin that he touches is on fire. I wrap my legs around him, but my feet can barely touch one another. He steps off the bed for a second and takes off his underwear, leaving him completely naked in front of me.

  I can’t stop staring at his body. It’s incredible. And looking at him I realize that all of my other boyfriends’ bodies were nothing compared to him. He’s muscled without being too big. He’s imposing without being intimidating. And even standing naked in front of me for the first time he exudes that self-confidence that I’d pay a million dollars to feel just once.

  He has every reason to be confident—his manhood is the biggest I’ve ever seen in my life. There’s big and then there’s big! Long, thick, and beautiful, he’s getting hard as we speak, turned on by the look I’m giving him. I start to anticipate what it will feel like when it’s inside of me, and I start to get even more wet than I already am.

  I invite him over with my eyes, and spread my legs open for him. I have an old condom in my nightstand, and he puts it on after I hand it to him. Once it’s on he climbs into the bed, and slides between my legs again. He lowers his head down to the spot where I’m aching for him. His tongue slides over me, gently, and I claw at the sheets in complete ecstasy. He presses even harder, letting his tongue push inside, and all the way up until he hits the perfect spot. He takes his time there, massaging in little firm circles as I grab at his hair. My body feels so good, and I feel that warmth come over me.

  He only teases me for a few minutes, but it’s all I can take without having an orgasm. He stops just before that point, though, almost as if he knows my limits just by the way my body responds to him. He grabs at my face and kisses me. I can feel the intensity in his touch, and his sense of urgency is turning me on. It’s like he can’t control himself when he’s with me, like he can’t get at me fast enough. I feel him reach down and grab himself, and I know that it’s time to take every inch of that huge thing right now. I can’t wait.

  I’m so wet that it won’t be a problem at all, but I’ve never even seen a man this big, let alone felt what it’s like. He puts the tip on the outside of me and moves it around. I lean my head back and I swear my eyes roll right into the back of my head because it feels so good. The whole sensation starts in one spot—localized at first—but then it radiates outwards, and overwhelms every nerve ending, every inch of skin, every bit of me.

  He teases the outside of me some more, but I know he can’t wait much longer. He pushes forward, guiding himself inside of me, and the feeling of all of him is almost too much to take. He’s gentle yet forceful at the same time—not thrusting too hard, but letting me know that he knows exactly how to use his significant size. He goes in and out, raising and lowering his hips so that I can feel every inch filling me up completely.

  While he’s inside me I feel alive. I’m not a shell walking around, pretending to be normal. When he’s inside me my body reminds me that of what it feels like to ache for someone else, to want them, to need their touch. It’s our first time, so neither of us are going to last very long. The buildup has just been too much, and the feeling of him is overwhelming. He feels it, too. I see his eyes starting to roll, and the noises he’s making let me know that he’s close.

  When he comes it’s like a symphony of happy noises coming from both of us. He doesn’t yell when he comes—he roars, like a male lion letting everyone in the pride know who the alpha is. His howl lets me know that he’s shot all of himself into me, and when he’s done he pulls out and lowers his head once more, working his way down to my dripping pussy once more. This won’t take long. He puts his finger in me as he licks, and I’m just about ready to finish. When I come I feel like I’m leaving my body, transferred to another plane of existence where every nerve is exploding, and my entire body is burning. “Oh my fucking God!” I scream, before collapsing.

  After it’s all over he throws his condom away and crawls into bed next to me. I snuggle up against his chest. I love the smell of him, and it’s all over me. The smell of our sex fills the room like the kinkiest air freshener ever, and for the first time in forever I feel truly happy, something I didn’t even believe myself capable of anymore. “That was incredible,” he says.

  “Yeah, it was. You have a tremendous cock, do you know that, sir?”

  “Aww. That’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

  We laugh hysterically, and I put my head on him once more. “You wanna order in and stay over tonight?” I ask. “I might need some more of that.”

  “My tremendous cock? You got it. But only if you like Chinese.”

  “You’re in luck, because I love both of those things. I know a great Chinese place, too.”

  “Talia, I think this is a match made in Heaven.”

  Chapter Nine

  My eyes are open ten seconds before I realize what’s happening.

  The clock reads 3:24 a.m., and my anxiety is in full swing. I feel like I might vomit. Even though I’m in my own place I’m completely disoriented. When I see Brandon lying next to me, his naked body tangled in my sheets, it focuses my mind on reality. I inhale deeply through my nose and exhale through my mouth.

  Normally my bed would be home base when I’m upset, the place I sit to let the demons pass, but I don’t want to wake Brandon. There would be no way for me to explain why I’m having a panic attack and about to cry, so I head into my bathroom to cry instead. I’m back to hiding who am I. It’s something I do so well I could teach a class on it. It’s a strange thing to walk around with this. . . defect of mine. It’s like you look and sound normal to everyone around you, but inside you harbor these secrets that you worry will chase the people you love away. I’ve had it happen before.

  I hear Brandon’s voice from the bed, deep and groggy. He sounds concerned. “Are you alright?”

  Dammit! He must have heard me get up. I already know I have to lie to him again, and it makes the tears flow even harder than they already are. The nightmare was the trigger, but once I get going the crying and the anxiety take on a life of their own, and they overtake me like a spiking fever. I take another breath to settle myself long enough to answer without sounding upset. I steady my voice and yell back.

  “Fine. Just an upset stomach, I think, go back to sleep okay?”

  “Okay, just checking on you,” he says. Even half asleep he’s so good to me. Brandon seems like that kind of man, the one who would jump out of bed and rush me to the hospital, naked, if I told him I needed to go. He’s a born boyfriend, and I wish his concern made me feel good right now, but hearing his voice and having to lie just makes me more nervous.

  “Thanks.” I yell, trying to end the conversation. Then I turn on the water so he won’t hear my sobbing, and I pray that he actually goes back to sleep so I don’t have to talk to him any more right now. I decide to text Carla. I have a line to her at all times, no matter if it’s the middle of the night or two in the afternoon. It was a deal we made after I was hospitalized years ago. My parents just did what they always do with me—freaked out and got disappointed. Carla did something different while she was sitting at my hospital bedside. She made me promise that before I ever let things get that bad again, that I’d call her, no matter where I was or what time of day or night. I made that promise becau
se I felt really guilty for scaring everyone, and I need her right now.

  Are you there? I text.

  I’m here, she writes back within seconds. Are you okay?

  How do you answer so fast? I ask.

  I keep my phone next to me on vibrate and ring. Always.

  I had another nightmare, I tell her. A bad one.

  Just breathe, she tells me. Keep breathing deeply.

  My problems started long before I was diagnosed, back in my junior year of high school. I was in all advanced placement classes, and ranked seventh overall in my school by the time we came back from spring break that year. I was also a two-sport athlete—lacrosse and field hockey. Needless to say, stress was my real best friend, and pressure my closest acquaintance. I was naturally driven to succeed, but my parents added a layer of pressure that just took me to an eventual breaking point. They’re like that.

  My dad is cardio-thoracic surgeon and my mom is an attorney. That should tell you all you need to know about the kind of standard they had for me and my sister. Regular classes weren’t an option, and failure of any kind simply wasn’t acceptable. Carla and I were made to internalize that fact at a young age. My parents were taskmasters when it came to our academics, and by the time getting into college became the focal point of my adolescent life, I was ready to break.

  Looking back on it, all the early signs of depression were there, but my family either didn’t know what they were seeing, or were too distracted with their own shit to even notice me starting to fray. It started with the isolation. I never had a huge group of friends, but even the few girls in my little squad started falling by the wayside. Every invitation to a party, or to hang out after school was met with a rejection by me, and it didn’t take too long before I spent afternoons in my room, alone, crying at the prospect of not getting into Harvard or UPenn. That’s also when I learned how to hide my problems from everyone.

  If I taught a course on how to be good at depression, my first PowerPoint slide would be titled “How to Hide.” Here’s the problem with honesty—if you tell someone you’re depressed, then they want you to see a doctor. They want you to take medication. They look at you differently than they did before. They think things of you that aren’t necessarily true—that you’re suicidal, that you might harm yourself, that all you want to do is lay in bed and cry. Basically, when you tell people that you’re depressed, you become a caricature of whatever movie reference they have in their head, and your life changes forever. So instead you learn to fake being healthy. I became an Oscar-worthy method actress. I was the teenaged Daniel Day Lewis, only the character I was playing was myself.

  Okay, I’m breathing, I tell Carla.

  Is it working? Do you need to call me?

  No, I say. I don’t want to wake. . . I stop myself. She doesn’t know about Brandon.

  Huh? Are you with someone?

  Sort of, I tell her. I’ll tell you about it another time.

  Do you have your meds in the room? Take one and keep breathing.

  Okay. I pop a pill and cup some of the running water into my mouth before swallowing. I hope it doesn’t take too long to kick in. Carla and Abby are my real support system, the ones who can keep me from flying off the handle when I’m like this, but the only person who ever understood me—really understood me—was my Nana, Rose. Rose was Dad’s mom, and she lived with us for years after my grandfather died when I was a little girl. Carla and Abby are great at taking care of me, but Nana was the queen of actually understanding me. There’s an important difference between the two, and if you can find someone who does both you’ve hit the jackpot. I miss Nana every day. I wish my brain hadn’t gone even crazier after I lost her.

  I start to feel a little better. I take the spare set of headphones I have in the drawer and plug them into my phone. I open up the mediation app I downloaded. It’s been a real lifesaver. I thought meditation was all bullshit until I met another girl in the hospital who used it and said it really helped her. I don’t do it every day, but whenever I get like this I use their breathing techniques, and it always helps counteract the symptoms of anxiety. I breathe in through my nose, and out through my mouth, listening to the comforting voice of the app developer, and I follow the instructions and start doing the breathing exercises that go with today’s session.

  Slowly, but surely, I start to feel okay. I text Carla, telling her as much, because I know she’s sitting awake in bed, waiting for a text from me. I’m okay now, thank you.

  Good, she writes back. You know I worry about you.

  I wish my sister a good night and thank her again, after I apologize about four times. I finally open the bathroom door after making sure that I’m okay and wiping the tears from my eyes. I see Brandon in the same position I left him, probably dreaming sweet dreams of the night we just had. Imagine if he saw me like this.

  I worry about you, Lia.

  I wish I could stop making people worry about me.

  Chapter Ten

  I wake up to the smell of fresh coffee brewing, and the unmistakably yummy smell of bacon sizzling on the stove top. Mixed with those scents radiating through the air is the other side of my bed, which still smells like Brandon. The mix of him and breakfast is the most wonderful combination to wake up to—much better than how I woke up in the middle of the night. I wonder if he heard me crying. I hope not. I wouldn’t know how to explain myself.

  I walk out into the living room in nothing but an old tee shirt, to the visual of Brandon dodging the spitting frying oil that’s flying out of the pan. There’s smoke hovering on the ceiling, and steam from the coffee is seeping out of the top of the Keurig. He looks like he’s trying his best not to get burned, and I can’t help but smile at him. “Good morning,” he says.

  “Morning. You don’t have to cook for me, you know.”

  “Well, that’s good to hear, cause I’m not sure I’m doing much more than starting a grease fire in your kitchen. Yet to be determined.”

  “I see that. Maybe turn down the flame down on the stove a little so the oil stops smoking.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Yeah, well, you learn something after you set off the fire alarm a couple of times.”

  “A couple?” he asks. I can hear the disbelief in his voice.

  “Fine,” I say. “Six times. You learn how to cook bacon after setting the alarm off six times.”

  “Six? Hell, I thought you were going to say like three or four.”

  “I wish. It got so bad that I think the fire department guys hated my guts. Gave me dirty looks and everything. One of them told me to. . .how did he put it? Learn how to cook, you inconsiderate bitch. Yeah, that was it.”

  “Oh my God, really? Did you slap the guy?”

  “No, I felt bad. I would have called myself an inconsiderate bitch, too. But I took his advice, and I haven’t burned any food since.” I point to the stove, but Brandon’s already turned the heat off and taken the bacon out. The smell is still great despite the fact that it has an edge of burned fat to it. And I can still smell the coffee through everything else. “I need some caffeine, I slept like shit.”

  “I thought I dreamed that.”

  “What?” I ask, even though I already know what he’s talking about and I’m mortified. I almost forgot that he woke up for a few seconds when I was up.

  “I heard you get up in the night. At least I think I did. You told me you were sick or something. Were you up long?”

  These moments keep coming faster than I want them to. There seems to be an opportunity every time I see him to lie in some way—to evade, to avoid, to bend the truth, but never to be totally open with him about who and what I am. The guilt of it all is starting to eat at me, and I don’t know what I’m going to do.

  “Not too long,” I say, lying through my teeth. “My stomach just felt a little weird.”

  “Maybe some food you ate,” he says. “Sometimes food poisoning can come on hours after you eat something bad. It happened to me and my
sister when we were twelve. Awful experience.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Must have been something like that.”

  It would be ironic if Joel knew that when I was in my early twenties I went through a really destructive self-loathing promiscuous phase. It was a rough six months in my life, a time when I would sleep with just about anyone who hit on me. Sometimes being numb is so unbearable that you’ll do anything to feel, even if that feeling is negative. That’s what those nameless guys did for me, at least for a while, until it all stopped. That’s when sex became an act for me, like drinking a cup of coffee when you don’t actually like the taste of coffee—I just wanted the effect it gave me. But eventually the effect faded, and after that phase came my serial monogamy—a series of good guys who I knew didn’t want me just for sex, but who I pushed away because sex wasn’t an enjoyable thing for me anymore. What all those guys have in common is that none of them knew why I was the way I was. None of them knew about my depression.

  Brandon should be different.

  Brandon is different.

  And if I want anything more than what I’ve had, I have to at least be honest with him.

  So why do I hesitate? Fuck.

  As he’s buttering toast and putting bacon on the plates, I walk up behind him and wrap my arms around his waist. I press my cheek into his back and squeeze, closing my eyes. His body feels so good—muscular, comforting, a sadness cure in human form. He leans his head back and turns his head so we can kiss. “Last night was incredible, Talia. I know that sounds cliché, but it was. . .amazing.”

  “It was more than amazing, it was fucking amazing. In case you were wondering, that’s a notch above regular amazing.”

  “That right?” he asks. I nod. “In that case, it was really fucking amazing. How do you like that?” We laugh, and he kisses me once more, and then turns back to finish. “So, what’s on your agenda today?” The smoke has cleared, and he’s plating breakfast for the two of us. I love a man who can cook, and I love that he sacrificed some extra sleep so that I could wake up to a nice breakfast.