Cognitive Dissonance
The final bell at Boston University always sounds like a funeral march for my decency. I close the door of Lecture Hall 402, leaving behind the echo of my own flawless lecture on Freud’s “repression of impulses.” In the hallway, I am Dr. Julianna Kane—a woman whose grey tweed suit serves as armor, and whose posture is the result of decades of rigid academic discipline. I speak of morality and the categorical imperative, while deep at the base of my skull, a low-frequency hum grows—a systemic glitch demanding immediate, radical intervention. It isn’t a “beast” or a “monster”; it is pure entropy, a programmed error in my flawless operating system.
I drive home through congested Boston, gripping the leather steering wheel so hard the seams of my gloves leave deep indentations in my palms. The fabric of my silk blouse feels too dry, almost abrasive; it irritates my skin, a constant reminder of how stifling and tight this social role has become. The city outside the window feels like a giant, predictable mechanism where every gear is in its place, and I am the most finely tuned of them all. But within that sterile order, entropy lives, and it can no longer be ignored.
At home, it smells of cleanliness and expensive wood—a scent of order that has begun to make me nauseous. I don’t turn on the lights—in the dark, it’s easier to kill the professor within. I kick off my shoes, and the sound of them hitting the floor feels like the final chord in a long-drawn-out mass for my patience. Then follows the blazer, the skirt, the stockings—layers of civilization falling at my feet like old skin. I stand in my lingerie, staring at my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling window against the cold lights of the metropolis. Julianna Kane’s body looks perfect, but it is dead. It is merely a vessel I fill with facts, footnotes, and citations during the day.
I step into the bath. The water burns, almost painfully, but that sharpness is exactly what I need to break through the mental numbness. I pour a glass of heavy, rich Cabernet—its color in the crystal reminds me of arterial blood.
Why do I do this?
Sinking into the foam, I ask myself for the hundredth time. The answer is frighteningly simple: thirst. A systemic need for self-destruction through someone else’s body. At the university, I am the supreme mind, the architect of meaning. But at night, the mind must be silenced. I need someone to shake this intellectual arrogance out of me, to turn me into a set of primal reflexes, into throbbing flesh. My body craves to become an object, devoid of will and agency.
I pick up my tablet. The screen flares, reflecting in my pupils like a cold blue flame. Water droplets fall on the glass, distorting the faces on the dating site. I perform an “expert evaluation” of the candidates, my analytical mind involuntarily classifying them like exhibits in a cabinet of curiosities:
A young couple. Design students. Aesthetic, clean, looking for a “mentor.” For a moment, I imagine my fingers digging into their tender skin. It would be an act of dominance, a pedagogical process transferred to the bedroom. But no. Today, I don’t want to teach anyone. I don’t want to be in charge. I want to be deconstructed.
A predator woman. Sharp cheekbones and one word in her profile: “Submission.” To feel another woman’s power over me is tempting, but it requires too much mental effort, too much synchronization with another’s frequency. My exhaustion today is too deep for nuances.
“X-Hunter.” No face. Just a torso in the shadows and heavy hands with knuckles that have seen more than one fight. He reeks of real, masculine aggression that knows no regret. This isn’t a game of noir; it is noir itself. No names. Action only.
01:00 AM.
This is not a time for dates. This is a time for Roxy. The name is my deliberate kitsch, a cheap facade behind which I hide the remnants of my reputation. It sounds simple, almost vulgar, and it is in that simplicity that I find my salvation from the complexity of my own mind.
I read his message:
“ Motel “Orion” , Room 12. Exactly at 01:00 AM. Come in something easy to tear. Don’t be late. I don’t like to wait.”
The choice is made. I shove the tablet aside; it hits the tile with a dull thud. I grind the back of my skull against the jagged edge of the tub until something in my neck pops. Pain is the only thing that feels honest now.
My hand dives beneath the water. The skin there isn't mine anymore—it’s inflamed, pulsing, demanding to be flayed. No grace, no gentleness. I dig into my own flesh, my fingers forced deep into the slick, scalding heat of my center. I can hear the wet, rhythmic sloshing of water and my own arousal—a filthy, animal sound echoing off the cold bathroom walls.
I close my eyes and let him in. This beast waiting in the shadows. I imagine the sheer weight of him, the brutal geometry of his cock—thick, engorged with blood, mapped with heavy veins that I’ll feel stretching my walls to the breaking point. He won’t slide in. He’ll drive himself into me with a sickening force, bottoming out until I feel the blunt impact of his pubic bone against my pelvis. I want his weight to crush the breath out of my lungs.
I imagine him fisting my hair, yanking my head back until my throat is exposed and raw. I want to feel him filling me—tight, unyielding, stretching the delicate tissue until it burns, until it nears the edge of tearing. I imagine the heavy, rhythmic slap of his balls against my clitoris, a relentless, bruising pace that leaves no room for thought.
The air in the room thickens with the imagined scent of him: bitter sweat, stale tobacco, and that sharp, musky reek of a predator before the kill. My internal muscles spasm, desperate to clench around that void, imagining the moment he’ll knot inside me and come—a hot, thick surge branding my insides.
The rhythm turns frantic, jagged. I dig my nails into the soft skin of my thighs, leaving crimson crescents in the wake of my desperation.
When the peak hits, it’s not a release; it’s an execution. I arch my back, my spine a taut wire, as a silent scream bottlenecks in my throat. My vaginal walls contract in violent, rhythmic tremors, clenching down on my fingers in a desperate, suffocating grip. My jaw locks so hard I can hear my teeth grind, white sparks exploding behind my eyelids as the oxygen leaves the room.
The tub is a tomb. Julianna Kane is dead in this cooling, stagnant water. On the bed, like a trophy scalp, lies the black vinyl wig. Roxy isn't going for a meeting. Roxy is going for her fix of filth and pain.
