Secrets and Lies

That smell on someone's skin that's different to what I know, coming awake next to a strange body, a strong dry palm holding tightly onto the top of my thigh, in a bed that's not mine.

That smell is freedom, difference, decedent variety. The repercussion of a dozen illicit texts, weeks of waiting, a long evening of intrepid social strutting, flirtation, the pull of an erotic coil, back and forth, will we, wont we. Of course we do, we always fucking do. Was there ever any question?

 I miss this. I miss lying, I miss those blissful moments in bed with a stranger. When no one knows where you are. When you're away from the monotony of monogamy and life. 

 I could be whoever I wanted to be there. I was powerful, I was a wicked woman, a very bad girl. That illicit tang tasted good on my lips when they joined his in a kiss. The secret was sweet. It was mine. I was alone. It was all I had, but it was mine and no one else could touch it. 

Honesty is a fair and grown up game. Honesty causes me anxiety. It's always so much harder to tell the truth than hold a lie. I miss my lies, I miss control. Unhealthy indulgent emotions create an ugly creature, but I still miss them all the same. They  were old friends, drinking buddies, a hand to hold me when I felt unloved. A strong dry palm, but the grip is slipping.