I don’t come here to read anymore.
The lie I told myself died somewhere between my first paid deposit and the night I let four strangers fill every hole until I couldn’t remember my own name.
Now the library is just the door. The mask. The descent.
The real reason I’m here is c**k. Wet mouths. Hands that know exactly how rough I like it. The way the chandeliers catch sweat and come like diamonds on skin.
I should have felt guilty.
Mom still waits up sometimes, asks why I’m out so late, why my eyes are glassy, why I smell like smoke and s*x even after showering twice.
I smile, kiss her cheek, say “work stuff” or “friends,” then slip out the back door the second her bedroom light goes off.
No guilt.
Just anticipation throbbing between my legs the whole walk to the library. My p***y a
