Girl on the Net

A confession: when you’re out, sometimes I lie on your bed and bury my face in your bedsheets. Huffing the lingering scent of summer sweat like it’s perfumed roses or myrrh or forty-quid wine. I am creepy, so of course I sniff your bedsheets. And that’s not all I do.

When I wash your clothes, I sometimes hold a t-shirt to my face, greedily hunting the scent of you. The one that used to be so familiar but is now gulped down in desperate snatches.

Occasionally I stand in the middle of your room and stare around at all your stuff. I feel like an imposter. A stalker. Squashing my toes into the carpet, I think of you in there without me.

And it turns me on.

There have been occasions, in the last few weeks, when I have sat in the chair at your desk. Tipped it back, the way that you do, with one foot resting on the edge. I’ve gazed at your blank monitor and tried to conjure the times I’ve watched you sit in this exact way.

The other day, when I was having a bath before bedtime, I used your shower gel. My apologies. I wanted go to sleep with a particles of not-quite-you in my nostrils.

I masturbate in the room above where you sit, and I picture you doing the same thing down below. If I focus hard I can imagine the sound of your grunting, or the soft slap of fist-on-flesh.

I indulge in an orgy of you behind closed doors. The simple, uncomplicated things: like the scent of your sweat on the bedsheets, or the taste of your ‘special occasions’ whisky on my tongue.

Another confession: I drank a can of your Coke. I hated it. I ate your sweets: far more fun. On a few different mornings I’ve made coffee from the complicated gadget that you seem to love so much. It tasted bitter and strange and not like you.

I’m angry and sad and messy and broken. I’m creepy and weird and confused.

So I sip your whisky.

And sniff your bedsheets.

And wish that I could creep inside your mind.

I promise you, hand on heart, that the person about whom this is written will think it’s cute, not creepy. You shouldn’t do this stuff unless you could say the same thing.