In Our Words

I’ve spent a lot of time reflecting upon addiction: what it is, what it means, how it has affected my life, and how it has affected the lives of people I care about. According to Merriam-Webster, addiction has two definitions. The first is this: a compulsive, chronic, physiological, or psychological need for a habit-forming substance, behavior, or activity that has harmful effects. The second is this: a strong inclination to do, use, or indulge in something repeatedly. One significant detail that makes the first definition stand out from the latter is that addiction causes symptoms upon withdrawal from it. When you really think about it, this is what makes an addiction so difficult, so heavy, and so challenging to overcome: the need for it and the effects of refraining from it, whatever it may be.

Six months ago, I walked into a community center, ready to discuss my addiction with a group of total strangers. I believed, at the time, that I was addicted to bullshit. When Alexander Vanderhausen forced his caring, appropriate nature down my throat, I spat it out differently: that my addiction was actually difficult situations. I didn’t realize the true definition of addiction at the time. Addiction isn’t just something that follows you, and it’s not just something that causes repetition in your life. It’s something you have to have. It’s something you must have in order to function, in order to survive. Addiction is a need, to describe it thoroughly. Even though I was wrong about having an addiction when I started attending Community Addictions Anonymous, I developed an addiction that I would later go on to talk about with the group. And, ironically, I developed that addiction after I started attending the meetings, not before.

One other thing is true about addiction, from my experience. Talking about it doesn’t fix it; it doesn’t make it any easier; and without a shadow of a doubt, it certainly makes you want it more.

I sat at the small vanity desk in my apartment, nervously shining an LED light on my neck as I observed it in my tiny mirror. This isn’t going to go away on its own. I got to work with my brushes and sponges, tapping and working concealer and foundation and powder and any other product I could find into the marks around my neck. I only had one goal: to make it look like it wasn’t there. I found, in my limited experience with things like this over the past six months, that I never really succeeded in thinking that it wasn’t there. Even on the off-chance that I was able to cover it up completely, it was still there. I could still feel it. And the sad part, the part that I was working through day after day, was that I wanted to feel it.

Manny: Are you guys still coming today?

Quinn: Cookout at your new place? We wouldn’t miss it for the world, babe.

Manny: I’ll see you soon. Feels like I haven’t seen you in forever.

Quinn: I know. I can’t wait.

When I left Blush magazine to pursue other opportunities, I did it with my addiction in mind. My old addiction, of course, was at the forefront of my mind—not my actual addiction. I started a new job freelance writing for an online magazine, and things were going great so far. It gave me the opportunity to work remotely, and more importantly, it gave me the opportunity to write. My days of editing were, hopefully, long behind me. The only editing I did lately was regularly editing my appearance to give off that I wasn’t in a physically abusive relationship. And, to clarify, I wasn’t in one. It just appeared that way, and I was painfully aware of it. I finished the last of my touchups and threw on a dress and boots, tossing my hair into a high ponytail. Then, there was a knock at the door.

“Do come in. I’ve been expecting you,” I said jokingly. My heart, my soul, my world. My John Cameron.

“I don’t know whether I should tell you that you look divine or whether I should tell you that you look much better beneath me,” he said, spinning me around in a circle as he walked into the apartment.

“John, we don’t really have time. We have to head over to Manny’s. And besides, I just finished covering up the last time you had your hands on me.”

“Am I at least allowed to kiss you?” he asked.

“It’s hard to say no to that,” I shrugged as he pulled me into his arms, his lips hovering so close to mine. “But it’s also hard to say yes, too.”

“Can’t even fucking kiss my girlfriend,” he sighed.

“If you didn’t kiss me the way that you do, then I wouldn’t be so hesitant,” I argued.

“And how is it that you think I’m going to kiss you?”

“The way you normally do,” I admitted. “Like you’re toxic. You kiss me like you’re so fucking bad for me.” Without saying another word, without hesitating for another moment, he grabbed my bottom lip between his teeth, pulling it toward him. His tongue entered my mouth, beginning a deep, sexy kiss that made me fall apart almost immediately. My breath quickened as his tongue danced with mine, and before I knew it, he pushed me up against the door and pinned my wrists above my head. When I started to pull my lips away from his slowly, he grabbed my ponytail, tilting my head back before kissing my neck and collarbones. “Toxic,” I whispered.

“In love with you,” he whispered back. My heart skipped three beats when he said it, and his warm breath tickled my cleavage. I wanted to feel his whispers all over me now, and as soon as he released my hands from his grasp, I grabbed his hand and intended to guide him to the bedroom. We never made it. He tossed me onto the dining table, pulling up my dress and pulling down my panties in a heated frenzy as he left trails of kisses down my thighs.

“We don’t have time for this,” I sighed.

“We can be a few minutes late. Remember, coming late is better than not coming at all,” he reminded me sweetly as he started rubbing my clit. Fuck. I shuddered as my breath hitched for him. I couldn’t help but smirk at his comment, and not knowing what possessed me to do it, I pulled my phone out of the pocket of my dress.

Quinn: Running a few minutes late, but we’ll definitely be there. So sorry!

“Quinn, did you just send a text?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, my voice becoming small and suddenly very nervous.

“You sent a text while I was rubbing you off?” he reiterated.

“I wanted to let Manny know that we’ll be late, you know, so he doesn’t worry.”

Before I could say anything, his fingertips were digging into my sides, squeezing me with every bit of force they could produce. I whimpered immediately, knowing what was going to come next. Without any hesitation, he pulled me up from the table and turned me around, bending me over at my waist. I heard him undoing his belt and folding it in half. Fuck. I shuddered again as his belt met my ass. I tried not to make a sound as I winced, the stinging growing on the surface of my skin with each blow. Once he finished three rounds on each side, he reached inside of me, roughly fucking me with his fingers. The next thing I felt was the blow of his belt across the back of my thighs. When he was finished, I stood there with my legs shaking, be it from pain or from fear, as I listened to the sound of him undoing his jeans. He wove his hand through the base of my ponytail, tugging at my hair and tilting my head back.

“Do you think he’ll be worried now?” he asked. I didn’t answer because I knew that he didn’t want me to. It wasn’t a real question; it never was. He forced his cock into me and began fucking me roughly against the table, the tops of my thighs smacking against the edge. His hands were finally at my waist now, and he lifted my dress further so that he could get a tight grip on me, so that he could sink his fingers into my skin.

“John,” I breathed, trying to keep it together as he unleashed every bit of fury that he had into me. He was fucking me so hard and so deep that I was trembling in front of him, and the only thing keeping me in place was his strong grip on me. He only released my waist when he set his sights on something else: the opportunity to grab onto my ass in the exact spots he’d hit with the belt. I was so sore from it all that I couldn’t help but whimper again: a sound that he’d come to know and love from me that meant weakness.

“I love the way you let me fuck you, you dirty fucking slut.”

He grabbed the back of my neck, forcing me down onto the table and holding me there until he finished, pulling out of me and releasing into his hand. When he went to the bathroom to clean up and eventually returned, I was right there where he left me. With my face touching the table and the length of my torso lying across the top of it, it was the only part of me that was relaxed. My legs were tense and shaking, and I had a feeling that if I tried to move on my own, I would collapse.

“Baby,” he whispered, returning behind me and squeezing my thighs tightly. I released another helpless whimper. “Are you ready for me, sweetheart? I’m going to fuck you right.”

I exhaled deeply, trying to let my muscles relax as he pulled me up and turned me around to face him. I was sure that he could see it: pain. My eyes had been watering, and my legs were still shaking. He kissed me sweetly—a soft, gentle kiss that was the exact opposite of everything I’d just experienced with him. Then, he pulled up a chair in front of me and took a seat, pulling me down onto his lap. My legs fell to the sides of the chair, and it felt so good to finally let them relax.

“Quinn, say something. Tell me you want me.”

Sometimes, when he was rough with me just because he wanted to punish me, I got like this: stubborn. I didn’t want to admit that I wanted it, but I did. It was all I wanted. He was all I wanted.

“I want you to fuck me right,” I said softly.

“Anything for you, sweetheart,” he whispered against my lips, pulling me into a kiss.

He eased his fingers into my entrance, pumping them in and out of me gently and moving them over the exact spot that I liked. His arm was wrapped around me tightly, holding me securely on his lap like he’d never let me go. When he pulled his fingers out of me, his next stop was my clit, and he moved them around in perfect circles, gradually speeding up his pace. I was already climbing at that point, and it always seemed to happen that way when he was rough. I liked it too much. I got off on it. And he knew that. And it only encouraged him to go harder every time. His gentle, sweet touch on my clit deepened and sped up, and I felt my body starting to shake for him.

“Will you come for me, my dirty girl?”

“Yes,” I whispered, my breath hitching in my chest dramatically as I started to feel myself let go. “Yes—John, fffffffuck.” My insides throbbed for him as I came, and as soon as he removed his fingertips from my clit, he forced them back inside of me, fucking me with them until I came down. My breathing was heavy and labored, shaking violently in my chest from the powerful orgasm I’d just had.

“I love you, Quinn,” he said softly, kissing me again.

“I love you, John Cameron,” I sighed.

I freshened up before we left, and as we walked out of the apartment and got into his car to head over to Manny’s, a thought occurred to me. I was so severely addicted to John Cameron. Nothing would ever pull me out of it. And, in fact, I’d never let anything pull me out of it because I had no intention of ever letting him go. I wanted him this way. I wanted him always. His hand rested on my knee while he drove, caressing me sweetly. He looked over at me, touching my cheek gently as we pulled up in front of Manny’s new place.

“Aren’t you glad we came, sweetheart?”