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The first day I met him he told me he was the Devil (in that charming way that bad boys do when you’re not pretty enough for them to pretend to be a good man, but they’re horny enough to want you anyway) and I believed that he was (in that way that the demonic use magic and dark powers of persuasion to poison your soul) He was beautiful, and brilliant, and uncompromisingly evil. But I didn’t care. He made me laugh. He had tattoos, wore thick black rimmed glasses, and when the lights went out he could make me cum.  He had this trick he would do with his fingers and his tongue that would literally make me loose my mind. The room would go to a dangerous shade of dark, I would close my eyes, it would start, and my thoughts would stop: Nirvana; Bliss; Heaven like Hell with the faint ischemic smell of burnt cookies; and from midnight till bliss the bed drowned with fire and screams.  I asked him one morning, where he learned to do that thing with his tongue, (in that way that young girls ask when they are pretending to be naïve about sex, yet want the most recent man to know that he is better than all the ones from before) and he told me “It like all things, actually has more to do with a breath and a thought.” (in that way that mass murderers speak to their victims when they’re already bound and gagged) it was truth; something that I rarely heard from him. And it should have chilled my spine and made me respect the powers of the night. But I didn’t care. So I asked him to do it again. He told me to close my eyes. I did. And he began again. But this time, I could hear the thoughts like hundreds of tiny red ants crawling at the back of my mind; they were wicked vile things; covered in decaying promises and slick with black tar pleasures. I licked them up like chocolate covered delicacies from a country so ancient that the death and despair has fermented into something intoxicating. I toured the fullness of his cobblestone streets, and laughed out loud and the sweetness of it all. The orgasm hit me like bright blue flame. It tore the breath from my throat and made my thighs bleed a delicate silver molasses that he drank like cheap champagne. I loved him (in that way that stupid girls use the word when they are too confused and impatient to find the right word) and he loved me too (in that way that flies love shit). When we were done, he kissed me. Something that he never did. It was cold, intimate, and far too deliberate; like razor blades in my mouth. That’s when I knew I was in trouble. But I didn’t care. I kissed the Devil back, loved my Demon fully, and smiled gently when I tasted my blood on the tip of his tainted tongue.