I was an addict of epic proportions. Sex, wild parties, baked goods laced with a chemical buzz. You name it. But mostly drama. Living life on the edge. I had to have my adrenaline shot. An artiste seduced by the moment. I had to have that rush. To have him.

We met freshman year in college. He was a goofball, a fuck-up, a poor student. The yin to my yang. I was a perfectionist even then. He had something I wanted.

“I’m gonna flunk,” he said, in that self-deprecating way. Charming.

“Why?”

“I ran out of my Psych 100 class. Couldn’t take it.” He laughed. It was all a joke to him, on the surface, but I read his pain. He was disappointed in that version of himself. I was on the verge of cataclysmic change. Supercharged. I sense things. Horse in a storm.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I said. I had my earbuds in, pumping the tunes full blast to drown out the prof—I knew more than the teachers, even then.

He was coloring, of all things, out of the lines, between the lines. All over the lines. His map was a muddle of discordant colors.

“We all have to do this. We have to fill in our maps. The states, the continents. I’m still on map one.”

He was a mess, like his map, a loose flannel shirt buttoned haphazardly over an untidy white cotton tee.

I got up to use the restroom so he would see me walk.

The seduction begins. Red lips, without lipstick. I bite them to draw out the blood. The embodiment of beauty. Poised. I am so poised. Poison. Flow through your veins. You will become addicted.

He followed me. Behind the building where I kept my backpack with my stash of baked blondies. I chose him on the spot to spark the change coming in me. He meant more to me than crack.

“What’s back here?” He was bashful. I liked that.

He put me at ease, not off balance like those other men, later. I tossed my wild mane. I fell back onto the mossy grass and he reached out his hand as if to lift me up, but instead fell down on top of me. On purpose.

I was so turned on. I kept grinding into him. I ached for him to kiss me, but he turned his head. He throbbed, ached for me to kiss him. So I looked away.

We got up and wandered the grounds. There was a carnival that day, with booths and games. We went into a secondhand shop. He tried on a gold turban hat.

I took his picture. “You look regal,” I joked.

He was humble. His goodness shone through. He was nobler than the hat.

I had to have him. I took a video of him sitting there. I asked a stranger to take a video of the two of us, for posterity. I would save the moment. The seconds leading up to my transformation.

He was the opposite of guys I would know later. The opposite of what I pretended, what I turned myself into to exert my pull. A vortex sucking in my victims. I needed rapt attention, but he was content to just be.

Just be with me.

My ego was large then, still is to a lesser degree.

I could get any man. Just prance across the room so they would see my perfect ass. The dip in my spine. I stopped traffic.

You’re beautiful. I always got on top.

That’s my thing, control. I know what gets me off.

Timid men. Shy boys who let me take the reins.

I take command.

Just let me get my rocks off.

But with him it was different. I liked him. I wanted to please him. I wanted to see that grin. I wanted adoration—approval—reflected in his eyes. I selected him. I was on the edge of a momentous moment. He would ignite the change in me

It was right there. The spark caught fire when he saw me walk.

That’s why he followed me.

I have power over men. With my Goddess mane. With my hysterical laugh. With my, “What the fuck are you doing?”

“I like you,” I told him. “I really like you.”

He stuttered a little. “I l-like you.”

I took his hand and led him out. I’m good at leading. I took him out back to the fat stacks of hay.

I undressed him slowly. “This is different,” I told myself. He had a body under that shirt, those torn jeans. He didn’t say much but his clothes spoke and his skin whispered and his hair—gray at the temples, premature gray. My graying baby adolescent man. One tuft thrusting above his forehead. He was my priest, my daytime confessor, dragging me out of the dark. Naked and shy, he smelled like sour milk. I stroked his chest.

Her. The girl in 101 with the body. I am sitting next to her. She’s so sexy. I hear she’s easy.

“I’m gonna flunk,” I mutter. Dammit. Why did I say that? Nice way to impress the ladies, jerk-off.

“Why?” She’s unphased, appears to be in her own hemisphere, circling. She’s up there somewhere, looking down on all us nerds.

“I ran out of my Psych 100 class. Couldn’t take it.” I laugh. I can be a real joker, especially when the joke’s on me. I’m not really failing school—well not completely—but college is much tougher than I expected. I am out of my league.

“What the fuck are you doing?” she asks. She has on the tightest tank top. The tightest jeans. I am not even in this section of the class. Just ran out of Psych 100 to get away from Professor Pussy Pants, spewing her psychobabble all over us captive kids—academic dominatrix, strutting the aisles in her camel toe slacks.

I can’t believe this chick is talking to me. I’m a nobody.

She smells good, like treats baking in an oven. She tosses her head and I get a whiff.

I fumble with my crayons. Crayons. Jesus Christ. What am I thinking sitting next to her scribbling on my map? These stupid-ass maps Professor Pussy Pants has us doing for Psych 100. “Map your intentions. Map your desires. Fill in your maps.” I don’t know where to begin. So I lie. I scribble and I lie. “We have to color the states, the continents,” I tell her. As if. Who the hell makes a freshman in college use crayons?

The hot girl snorts and her nostrils flare. Her pupils dilate. Doesn’t that indicate attraction? I read that somewhere. I think she digs me. She gets up and leaves halfway through the lecture without pushing in her chair. No books, just earbuds hooked to the phone she wears like an oversized jewel jutting out between her gorgeous tits.

And that ass. Whoa mama, whatcha doin’ to this poor lonely boy? The air hums and jangles, all us boys—girls too—shifting in our seats to watch her move. To watch her exit from this stuffy room. “S-sorry,” I tell Miss M, the History professor, a nice lady but not too bright. She hadn’t noticed I’d run in, to the wrong section of her class, doing another teacher’s homework while she droned on about the Wars of Roses. “Wrong s-section.” I gather my stupid crayons, my backpack, my crumpled map. Push in my chair. I tuck it delicately into place so as not to disturb more than is needed to make my escape. I tuck that girl’s chair in neatly too. My sounds are muffled, a mouse scuffling underfoot, apologizing for my own existence. I glance around the table we shared to be certain no mess is left behind.

Then I am out in the fresh air, in the sun and I catch her scent, sugar sweet. I see her round the corner, just the curve of her hip, but it’s enough.

“What’s back here?” I ask.

She’s laughing. She has an infectious laugh. She laughs hysterically, at the back of the building. This isolated shit-smelling patch beyond the restrooms that they lease to 4-H to hold their Spring Dairy Judging Contest. She’s laughing so hard she falls backwards onto the mossy grass.

Holy crap, this chick is wasted. Should I be a gentleman? I think I should. I hold out my hand to help her up, but she pulls me down. I land on top of her.

God, she is beautiful. Flawless skin. Plump juicy lips.

She arches her back, presses her tits against me—the cold metal of her phone grazes my neck. She propels herself up against my groin with sharp knowing thrusts.

But I can’t do it. I wasn’t raised this way, to take advantage. I want to kiss her so bad. I turn my head. She turns her head. We both avoid the inevitable. I stand. Taking her hands, I lift her to her feet.

She snickers, nodding as if about to reveal a great secret. The Men’s and Women’s restrooms are squat cinderblock buildings divided by a narrow alley. More like a slit. She shimmies sideways and slips her arm in, pulls out a canvas backpack the same navy as her jeans. Inside the front pocket is a plastic baggie of baked squares. Brownies, except they are vanilla. They’re called blondies. I like to cook, so I know this stuff. I watch a lot of cooking shows on TV, mostly to avoid doing homework, which is ironic because Dad says when I graduate I can do whatever I want. I want to be a chef, but until I get my degree to prove I can be serious at something, culinary school is out of the question.

She pops half of one in her mouth and feeds me the rest, fingers massaging my jaw—she directs my chewing. I take tiny nibbles to make it last, though I want to devour her hand. This is definitely not a confection for kids. Laced with something. From the earthy taste I’m guessing pot, but a stronger version than I am used to. I’m not much of a drug aficionado. It takes a long long while for me to feel the effects, but when it hits, I am in another zone.

She leads me across campus to where they’re holding Fall Carnival, booths decorated for Halloween and games of skill. I suck at these games, so I am grateful when she waltzes instead into a little shop with secondhand clothes and gaudy costumes. I slap a turban on my head to break the tension. There’s heat between us, but I’m not sure how to make my move.

She takes my picture. “You look regal,” she says.

I blush, a deepening fever as she sits beside me and has a stranger take a video of us. I wonder if the camera picks up my desires, my emotions on display. It’s more than lust. I like this girl. I tell her everything. About Dad and his outrageous demands and how I was never good enough at anything to please him. No good at sports, so don’t expect me to win her a stuffed teddy bear today, but for her I would put myself out there if she really wants one. She doesn’t, she assures me; strokes the top of my thigh through my jeans, her painted nails decisive points that vibrate to my very core.

“And I’m not really flunking Psych; I just don’t care for the professor analyzing us, like we’re her lab rats,” I say. Has she ever had a teacher like that, a Miss Bossy Pants? Do her parents control her every move?

“I really like you,” she says, drawing out the “you” so the purse of her lips is pronounced. I can’t stop staring at those lips.

“I l-like you.” I stutter when I am nervous, stumble to keep up.

“Then follow me,” she says.

She takes my hand. She leads me back to that spot, that patch behind the restrooms where the cows are penned, when they’re here, when the 4-H holds their annual contest to judge cattle, dole out awards for posing, leading, control, delivery, cream of the crop. Does she think I’m a winner? Am I her first choice? She takes me, right there on the shifting bales of hay.

And we are doing it. I’m doing it, my first time ever. I harden, deepen into her, lost in her rhythms. In the field, in the shit stained air wafting up from the dirt, this patch of nothing behind the Men’s and Women’s restrooms where she hides her stash. She snorts while we do it. I’m losing myself. The sound of her pleasure takes hold of me. I don’t know who I am, but I know her, from the curve of her spine to her perfect thighs. Opening for me.

I wanted all of him. He tasted like taffy. Sticky sweet. My candy boy. Smelled like a river rushing through my rocks. I got myself going. He had to like it, because I did.

I’m grinding. Grinding into him. Grinding him, like sausage.

He was going to be mine.

It was different. I had it in my hands. We were this close.

To being real.

I looked into his soft brown eyes. I had him. I wanted. I needed.

I was on top. Like always. He was my puppet, my prey, my predicament. Can’t stop can’t stop. Gotta have him. Have it.

And he wanted me. Undying love isn’t real. There’s only this high, on the blondies, high on the ride on the sky the hay the daylight the night the stars the universe, high on myself.

I’m good at this.

I know my orgasms and this one was epic because he was so passive so pure so ready for the kill.

My kill. Crush it. Crush the moment. Crush him.

I willed him, with my hips. Say the words. I grind, I sway.

I liked him.

I am sloppy, undisciplined. She is precise. She is an expert handler. Our bodies join to make a foreign animal agitating the earth, stirring up patterns with our changing shapes. I groan and writhe. This is the most noise I’ve made in my entire life, the largest statement I have ever made, making love, mating, with this prize filly. I grab at her flesh.

I’m so full. I will burst.

I‘ve got to speak the words out loud, unburden myself.

 “I l-love you,” I gasp.

I roll off of him. I wipe myself with his white cotton tee. I’m slippery and sticky inside.

I don’t like the sticky part.

I clean my cunt with his shirt. There’s a lot of come. He was good. I was good.

We both came hard.

I roto-rooter myself inside out with his shirt. Unstick myself. Still gooey, but sufficient. I wad up his shirt and toss it in the dirt. A memento for him.

You’re welcome, I think. You poor sod. You lucky dog. You stranger. Best day of your life.

You fuck-up.

He did not live up to his potential. To the promise in those big doe eyes. He didn’t stop my noxious longings. He got the better of this bargain. And he knows it.

Knows I did him a favor. Best time of his life. Epic.

Behind his soft eyes, he sees and knows the truth and hugs himself, rocks side to side in tiny ratcheting movements like a newborn, self-soothing, like a baby sucking his thumb. Our earliest addiction starts in the womb.

I’m through with you! I want to shout. I put my ear buds in, to drown the silence. He doesn’t speak a word. I went through you like water, I think.

He’s not speaking. He’s lying there getting smaller as I walk away.

On to my next conquest. My next bit of drama. My next victim.

I understand her disgust. I am disgusted with myself, sleeping with a stranger. We didn’t even know each other’s names. I hug myself, an involuntary move, rock side to side to ease the pain. What a pussy, not like the studs she must be used to. The studly males she deserves.

I see her sometimes, swirling on the quad, inhaling the universe. The air is more rarified in her hemisphere. She won’t break stride for anyone. She once caught my eye and winked. I’m honored really. She’s an original. The experience she gave me will never be duplicated. First prize, if you can nail her down, but no one can.

I am a confection. All sugary and baked. A treat for the taste buds. Wanna taste?

I’m getting better at this. Didn’t think it was possible, but I’m better than ever. I’ve been to a meeting, those meetings where they synchronize, analyze, fix your worth on the quality of your contacts. How many contacts—seven more under my belt by meeting’s end—but why count? My potential is limitless.

Drawing out my finest self, from deep inside, becoming my most spectacular me.

It’s nighttime. The lights switch on. The lights are pitched at just the right angle.

Slow walk, so they can take in my moves. Life is my dance floor. Plenty of eyes to appreciate my many gifts. Watch me.

Chalk up another win, another hit, another rush. I have this talent you see. I mesmerize men.

Women too.

I’m a hellcat. Smooth feline shimmy. I do a two-step, shake to the music blasting in my head, traipsing, floating my arms in that sexed-up way.

The best thing that ever happened to you.

They all stare at my perfect ass.

The best thing that ever happened, period.

The spring air tempts me, but I head for the library to hunker down, finish that essay for Professor Pussy Pants. I signed on to take her for a second term. Got to keep up my average. This semester I’m pulling straight A’s.

Rounding the corner a truck roars hauling the longest cattle trailer I have ever seen. Emblazoned clovers taller than men adorn the sides in flashy 4-H green. The driver thunders through campus,  ignoring the speed limit, but I know where he’s going. I race to keep up, cut through the quad, between the Psych and History buildings in time to see him park in back of the restrooms on the manure rich field. Scene of the crime. I chuckle.

He swings open the tailgates. Behind thin metal slats, a herd of enormous heifers waits for his direction. Without prod or rope, he leads them to the mossy grass. The clatter of hooves against the steel ramp deafens me. I try to pick the winners for this year’s contest, but the endless parade of black and white flanks, sweet doleful eyes, and trusting muzzles all look the same.