Dig in

It’s been three weeks since I was bitten.

I’ve stopped counting the days, but I still count the weeks. Just a flash of white, and I go back to zero with a sigh.

It would seem I’m very biteable; I can’t begin to tell you why.

Some of us just are, to be honest.

Don’t feel bad.

The third last time, I was standing in my kitchen, peeling off flakes of blue cheese with the tip of a knife. It wasn’t a complex job, but it was mine. My teeth may even have been digging into my lower lip as I cut; I can’t be sure.
I didn’t see Heidi sidle up, I was so focused. She was humming under her breath to Serge Gainsbourg on the stereo, shifting her weight from side to side as she gazed at the food. She’s the only one I know to get as excited about feasts as I do. I should have known what was coming.

She wrapped one arm around my shoulder and leant in close, her head resting against my neck.

This smells so good, darlin’.

I may have smiled; I certainly kept slicing.

I want some now.

And her tiny little teeth in my shoulder made me jump, made the knife slide out of my hands.

I was at the bar in Westgarth Street. No, not the one with the zebra print couch – the one with the torn pool table, under the Cramps poster. Can I continue? I was watching the shots of tequila being lined up at the bar and wondering what kind of person did that at 4am. I was beginning to think maybe I was that kind of person, my hand steadying myself on a stool, when a mouth opened just in my line of vision and settled, quite firmly, on the tattoo painted down my left arm.

I blinked, twice.

I mean, people don’t really do that, right?

He had curly black hair and a crooked grin. I didn’t think I knew him. I didn’t think I knew much that night though, to be honest. And then he had a plump hand on the back of his collar and the weight of a Samoan bouncer behind him, dragging him out where the street light would do his tired skin more favours.

Some tattoos are just more biteable than others, I guess.

The last time, I was in the beer garden of a pub with more double basses and fiddles than Alabama. It was late afternoon, and I was watching him scroll down the menu with those blue eyes. I was so busy watching him that I forgot to read the list myself, so when he went to order I just chose the words my eyes fell on. It was the last item, sticky date pudding.

I knew there wasn’t a chance in hell I was going to eat that delicately.

This was going to get messy.

He had so much fun watching me he forgot to eat his nachos with extra guacamole. I slid the spoon into my mouth, again and again, sucking the sauce off slowly and watching him laugh. We both knew I’d slide my finger around the bowl afterwards.

I didn’t disappoint, feeling the thick butterscotch sauce ooze around my fingertip. And when I held it out towards him, neither of us spoke.

I slid it over his bottom lip and felt the warmth within, the softness of his tongue curling around my finger. When he caught it between his teeth and pressed, so softly, my smile was not one you’d want to take home to meet your mother.

I’m not the kind of woman you can ruffle the hair of. We all get affection where we can, after all.

It would seem I’m very biteable; I can’t begin to tell you why.

Some of us just are, to be honest.

Don’t feel bad.

Dig in

bellmusker

Melbourne, Australia

  • Artist
    Notes
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Artist's Description

I actually hate being bitten…but it happens all too often.

And yes, watching me eat sticky date pudding is an event, or so I’m told.

I have no sugar shame.

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