I want to say this now, because I worry that by morning the words coming out of my mouth will already carry traces of your saliva.
Before anything else, I just want you to know it was my choice, my free choice. And it was one I would make a thousand times over in a thousand different lifetimes.
I paid attention in biology class, I read the pamphlet, I knew what it would do to me. I knew clear as day that after you sink your teeth into me your little molecules will lay claim to my bloodstream and I knew how my glands will overwrite the parts of my brain stem that kept doubt and worry and the should-I-or-should-I-not.
I knew that if you bit me after dinner then by morning I will be tender and pliable. I knew that by two weeks in, smelling your sweet asafetida breath will make me very quiet indeed.
I knew that by Christmas mom will see a very settled omega finally curled up in her alpha in the soft and irrevocable way.
Right, mother. Yes, she wants this for me. She wants me calm, and you bound to me. One less loose alpha to spray pheromones into the family dinner. She said father always ends up restless after we drive off.
She never believed me, that you said you didn’t need it.
But this is not about her.
You’ve been so gentle.
I want to say this now, because I worry that by morning the words coming out of my mouth will already carry traces of your saliva.
You’ve been so gentle.
The way that you said we don’t have to, the way you combed over that pamphlet, the way you put your forehead on my sternum when I am in heat. The way you are big and tall and put in cabinets when we moved in, the way you hold me in your arms after a long day at work.
I lined this up with the four-day weekend, with my paid leave we have a full week to recover after the bite.
The good blankets are in the dryer, just to warm them up.
The doctor said something about personality changes, right? I hope that doesn’t take away too much of my bite. If it does, please remind me when my boss is walking all over me again. And perhaps one last time: No, energy drinks cannot replace water.
I hope this also means that the succulents I keep will fare better. Right, I’ll need to get Phoebe to water the pot at work. Or maybe she won’t, she knows better.
And, I’ll smell a bit different to her then, huh? I know she won’t make it a big deal, but I hope it’ll make her happy more than she’ll miss this scent.
Really, it’s okay. I want this, and I want the calm to go your way and feel safe and make you go softer than I already make you. I’ll still be out there, I’ll still come home complaining about how the Bauhaus vases don’t agree with the Edwardian cutlery at all. That I will keep, just, maybe I’ll just come home a bit earlier. Maybe.
You are being very gentle, you have always been so gentle. The way you learned to braid and make the traditional bun. Thank you, it looks excellent. I love the way you put your arms into shaking that piece of ice to slush just to amaze me, and never the customers.
Will it be fine for you too? Are they going to tip less because they can smell a bit of me on you? I hope not.
You cradle my head, like it’s one of the old radium teapots I swaddle at work. I’ll be fine, I am not that fragile.
I can feel my heart beating, running itself in circles, and the pamphlet said this would be the last time the racing heart and you are in the same room.
I pull you in for a hug, your forehead touches my sternum.
Grandma and mum never taught me the bun, thank you for tying the one yours taught you. It is beautiful.
They’ll be so happy at Christmas, and maybe this year mum’ll tell you about her and grandma, and the story of two beta women bumbling for my first heat.
Your lips are so warm, like they didn’t even touch the drink. I feel them holding down and asking in their touch for one last time.
One last time, then.
It hurt, for the first two seconds it just hurt, you were so good holding me in your arms. I hope the scream didn’t scare you too much. I wished that I could see your face.
Then I felt dizzy, like how the pamphlet said. I felt the pain turn to a low simmer and a lid put on. I felt your powerless fingers and locked arms. It was very comfortable, and I began to feel drowsy.
The heart slowed, too. One last time. By Christmas your presence alone would steady it.
And I could feel things going away then. The uncertainty, the old scent, the dryer-warmth on the sheets. The pamphlet said it will be replaced by something you-shaped, well, at least the first two.
I liked how I had to ask you three times to let go and get me some hot chocolate.
It still hurt a bit, but you told me it was going to be okay, and I said thank you, for letting me choose you.
See you in the morning.