Special
How much of yourself would you give to feel chosen?
cw: sexual content, intense intimacy
I feel the cool wedding band on his finger as he wraps his hand around my neck. His grip is tight and my heart drums heavily beneath his palm—a rhythmic plea for more.
I’m breathless, his weight pressing eagerly against my bare skin. He moves inside me with an intensity that borders on anger—each thrust a desperate exhale of frustration from a life I’m not a part of. But I welcome it.
In the darkness of his secret, I’m his escape. He doesn’t have to pretend with me. He can be brutal, primal. These are the qualities he hides at home behind forced smiles and quiet dinners. With me he also finds laughter, a momentary freedom. With him I find validation—the comforting proof of worth each time he fills my mouth, each time he presses me deeper into submission, each time he whispers, “God, you’re perfect.”
But as I close my eyes, reality blurs softly at the edges. In the dim haze of this intimacy, my mind drifts, memories bleeding into one another.
Suddenly, it’s not just him—I feel the ghostly hands of others tracing my body. I hear soft whispers, passionate moans, gentle laughter. Faces merge into one undistinguishable lover. My skin remembers all of them: the caresses of gentle fingers touching my thighs, bruising grasps claiming ownership, delicate kisses landing softly along my neck, violent hands that left lasting marks of possession and pain.
I’m overwhelmed. Their voices echo as one tangled chorus—a melody of desire and selfishness, comfort and cruelty. Pleasure pulses through me, tainted by sadness. It’s intoxicating and heartbreaking to realize each of these men have claimed a piece of me. I offered them myself willingly, unaware of the fragments of joy and hope they stole each time they pulled away, leaving me emptier.
And I loved it. I thrived in the ignorance, reveling in the dangerous satisfaction of feeling desired, chosen, special—even if only for moments at a time. Bruises and bite marks, sure, but the emotional scars went unnoticed as I traded my innocence for fleeting validation. I was giving away the light inside me, welcoming darkness because even darkness felt better than the emptiness of believing I’m wasn’t enough.
The grip on my throat loosens, pulling me gently back into reality. His breathing calms, becoming soft sighs of satisfaction as he kisses the side of my neck. “You’re something special,” he murmurs quietly, voice jagged with exhaustion.
Special. It’s a word I’ve chased my whole life. He doesn’t know that he and the others before him have filled me in ways deeper than the physical—yet simultaneously drained me of something sacred.
But tonight, as he moves away, dressing in silence to return home to someone else, I let the melancholy wash over me, accepting this painful, beautiful contradiction.
Because tonight, as I lay adorned with goosebumps and painted with black, blue, and red, I’m enough.
Even if tomorrow I wake up empty again.
I originally posted this on Instagram, March 23, 2025.
Thank you for being here. If you saw yourself in this, you’re not alone. This is the second entry part of a trilogy on belonging. I explore the belonging and sanctuary I’ve looked for in other people, especially lovers and romantic partners.
Home with You was romance. Special is the cost. Belonging is what comes after.