"I have known the violent side of men, the side that can destroy another human being because of their own desires." - Tori Amos

Fantasy #38: Slow-dancing in a floaty, ditzy flower print dress with a boy I like, and the Arctic Monkeys' 'Cornerstone' in the background. Because it tugs at my heartstrings and makes me want someone to hold my hand as I turn, lower my eyes, smile, and flirt coyly.

So. Shall I write about how I made love with a boy while I still had the bruises left by another on my body?

All made out of more love, of course, not violence. Or if not love, then desire. And afterwards, I kissed Will goodbye - perhaps for the last time, I thought - and headed to brunch, then dinner. I had to cover the bruises with makeup in case anyone noticed; that's how bad they were. I looked like I'd been mauled. (Which I had, I suppose. In a good way.)

After dinner, TA cancelled on me. Then phoned later, as I was scouring shower tiles, to ask if I could go round before he left for home. I went, of course.

I thought he just wanted to talk, so when he leaned in and kissed me, I asked: 'Are you sure you've got time for this?' He murmured he did. Off went the lights, our clothes - or was it the other way round?

In the dark, we ran our hands over each other, tasted each other. 'I'll miss this,' I said. By that, I meant I'd miss him. I doubted I'd ever find such beauty again. His favourite CD played in the background, and after all, he'd always had good taste in music (amongst other things). And when we finally were, it was different - better. Slower. More gentle, less for show. At last, fucking that wasn't self-conscious on his part. Oh, why couldn't he have done it this way from the start?

If we weren't kissing, our faces were only inches apart. I could feel him breathing, hear him, hear us giving little gasps, little moans as we moved together. The sound of us against the silence. It was the closest I'd ever come to making love with him properly. And then, slightly sour, I wondered who'd taught him to be less frantic in bed. I doubted he'd suddenly had some sort of sexual revelation.

It was over too soon. He had to leave, I had boxes to pack and a guilty conscience to ignore. Walking back home later, I would realise it had been just sixteen hours since I'd been in bed with someone else.

I got dressed with the lights on while he stared up at me from the bed, lying there in just his boxers. I'd forgotten how his eyes had that look - still had it - that could make me fall in love with him again and again, and melt me, melt me. Now I wonder if he saw the marks on my shoulder - I'd forgotten about them - because even with foundation dusted across the bites, you could still see them slightly. Careless of me, but maybe he wouldn't really have cared. I'm sure he had other lovers, and I certainly had mine.

At the door, I wished him luck. He told me a Boy Lie. I kissed him and left, and when I was halfway back to my house, I realised I had only seen him for half an hour, tops. So much in so little time.

I suddenly remembered that second dinner - or was it the first? - when you asked me if we should make lightning. How you poured a little milk into a glass, put a light bulb in it, then turned the microwave on.

When I watched the same experiment in Physics class all those years back, I swear I'd seen the bulb turn purple. This time, it shot fine threads of light around the metal interior, as if you were some kind of Zeus-figure. What shame, what a shame I turned out to be your Leda.

And so time and time again I would surrender my love to you -
Who'd have known that in a moment you'd leave me behind?
Since we are now poles apart, east and west,
How much better if, from the start, we had never met?

- Song of Everlasting Resentment, Wang Jiaoluan


I wished for a man
With a single heart,
That we should not part
When our hair turned white,
Not a bamboo rod,
Swayed by the tail
Of any wriggling fish.
A man with a steady will
Cannot be had for money.

- A Song of White Hair, Zhuo Wenjun