Bobby, my Bitch

Bobby was my plaything. My little toy I can play with. Bobby was my bitch. I had complete and utter control over him. I liked the attention if I’m being honest. A significantly older man spending time with me. Loving me. Bobby was my bitch to the core. And he loved every second of it. He loved seeing my pictures reserved only for him. He loved the late night phone calls because my boyfriend couldn’t treat me nice if he had a gun to his head. He loved stroking my hair, caressing me, letting himself overtake me completely. Bobby loved being my toy. And I loved playing.

I’ve always had a thing for older men. Their silvery hair, paunchy bellies. It gets me going. Bobby had all that and more. We’d discuss books and movies, his thick accent penetrating through the phone. His laugh, thick and guttural, gurgling out of him. I loved him. I loved the way his hand would always reach for the small of my back, making the fine hairs stand upright, electric with his touch. I burned sage and bay leaves for a week for him, hoping his devotion would deepen like the instagram girls told me it would. Maybe it was bad juju, who knows, but Bobby started ignoring me.

My gorgeous beautiful fleshy man was growing distant. Lesser texts, dry replies. No longer my bitch. I became his. I called. I begged. I flirted. I cried. My boyfriend was on the verge of breaking up with me over this man. But I loved him with a passion. He understood me. He got me. For once in my life, a man got me. My handsome man. If you see this, you know where to reach me. I miss you Bobby.