Moon Sugar by Angela Meyer

Author:Angela Meyer
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Transit Lounge
Published: 2022-07-12T00:00:00+00:00

That evening Mila and Josh are still together. She can afford it now, with the money on the prepaid card that was pressed into her palm as they left the bright inner realm of the building. She sits on him, holds him inside her as she moves. He moans, closes his eyes. She no longer covers her breasts with her arm, or pushes them into attractive shapes; she lets them swing as she closes her eyes too, seeks the core of herself.

Afterwards, as she traces his bicep, forearm, down to the thin, silver-look bracelet they were made to put on today, which will track them for six months, he asks, ‘Do you feel any different?’

Yes, immediately, she does. But from the money – the too-easy money has filled her with a sensation of freedom, joyousness. She says, ‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘Neither,’ he says, one hand on his post-coital cock, comfortable and contemplative.

‘But I do feel different since meeting you,’ she says. Then wonders if she should have held back.

He rolls onto his side, faces her. ‘I’m glad.’

The way he has allowed her to be in touch with her eroticism, her hunger – it’s filling the dark places within her.

Even with Scott, her best friend, her partner, her long-term lover, she’d sometimes hid the hunger. If she bit his lip in the kiss, if she stared too longingly from the bed while he got dressed, if she said ‘are you in the mood?’ (the frustration having risen to spilling) he would usually not be, or not be anymore. But if she waited in a way that didn’t look like she was waiting, if she stood up in front of him while wearing something that clung to her arse, if she had on a grey singlet with nipples poking through (she began to learn the tricks), then he might start the action. And she might pretend to be surprised, and let him take the first hungry kiss, and let him grasp first for the crotch, and let him push her gently down onto the bed or say ‘let’s go to the bedroom’ and then it would happen. And then it wouldn’t just be him sighing and saying, ‘I can take care of you, if you like?’ Which she often accepted, but it was a sad fuck when she knew he wasn’t into it. And when they were supposedly trying for a baby, it wasn’t enough. What was he thinking about, when he was down there? Was he playing a song in his head? She still couldn’t listen to Nirvana or Pearl Jam without a sense of twisted longing – holding his hand, pheromonal cloud, smile of a friend: separate, blood beating. She was never able to be the songs. She didn’t stick like a tune inside his head, even after ten years.

And she found it was always this way, with the men she was with. Having to pretend not to want it, having to let them seduce. Becoming small and curled on the bed while they encompassed her.

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