Our Song.

"When you step out of the bathroom, I'm going to punch you," I told her as her growls faded into silence.
"Why?" She asked clearing her throat, "Do you hate my music?"
"No," I responded, "I fucking love it."
When she walked out of the bathroom a few minutes later, I asked very politely that she set her guitar down.
And then I punched her.
It was a risk; I wasn't sure how she'd respond.
She laughed.

Before I knew her, I knew *of* her as my sister's roommate.
The several times that I did run into her at their place our interaction was limited to pleasantries. My sister did tell me a few things about her; all which I realize I disbelieved until I learned them myself.

It was entirely by accident that I ended up spending that evening with her. My sister was out of town and apparently no one could find her roommate. So she asked me to go check up on her since I live ridiculously close to their place.
I went. I knocked. No one answered.
I unlocked the door.
She was asleep on the futon. It took half an hour to wake her up.
I should have believed it when I was told about her being a ridiculously heavy sleeper.  I have since learned that she can sleep through a literal earthquake.

Once up she proved to be rather pleasant and easy company. There were a few other things I started to believe about her that evening. She really does have excellent taste in music. She really doesn't have a clue how the world around her functions. She really is exceptionally creative.

And more than a little twisted.

We started spending a lot of time together after that. More time than I've ever spent with someone I did not intend to fuck.
She made a claim to asexuality. I rarely believe those claims; I wouldn't say that asexuality does not exist or that *no one* in the world is asexual but as I understand it, it is often misunderstood.
However, I am also open to the possibility that I am the one who doesn't understand.
It does fuck with my worldview.
Regardless, since she made that claim and I can be respectful (of the wishes of people I like), I did not attempt woo her sexually.

Except for the occasional beating.

Accidentally, that had become one of the foundational elements of our relationship. After I punched her that first time we got conversationally sidetracked into a predictable direction. And when she said, "I can never have a boyfriend, but I want a slave. I love treating people like that."
She surprised me. It's rare to meet a woman so young who speaks so clearly and unashamedly about things most people shy away from.

Despite what she said she always urged me to hit her. Then she played with the welts and the bruises in one corner and a million miles away.
It wasn't sexual. Not to her, anyway.
I would like to believe, still, that there is little inclination for me to believe that.

But I believe it because I've seen her *actual* sexuality.

She is unchanged. Always the same face of stoicism. Even in pain she is carefully reactive and quick to return from the few deviations.
In anger, in joy, in sadness..she looks and feels the same.
But when she sings she is composed entirely of sexuality. In well-timed raspy breaths, in impossibly controlled high-notes, in helplessness that is apparent in those soft moans and the unwavering command over every sound that escapes her lips..her music is her sex.
So much so that I feel no sexual connection to her when I beat her but when she sings, she rapes me.  

I've been spending a lot of time with her over the past couple of days because we share deep love for Nightwish in the rain. She was still hanging out when the lover came home from work. They've met several times. She doesn't like men but somehow the fact that she knows intimate details about our "deviance" makes it easier for her to spend time around him.

Our evening turned into some sort of romantic date. There were candles and music and wine and inappropriate suggestion. I was scantily clad in cotton but heavily clad in leather. She is always scantily clad. I was laying with my head in his lap and my feet on her lap as she kneeled on the floor right next to us.
Something about her position made me lean over and stroke her hair.
"You're treating me like your pet," she said.
"Is that what you want to be?" I asked stroking her some more.
"I don't know," she said smiling as she lit up her cigarette.

A little while later, the lover and I were touching and  whispering. She was leaning over on the floor, her chin right next to my ear and playing with matches.
"What should we do now?" She asked for the 47th time that day.
"Maybe I should tie you up in the bathroom for not stopping with that," I said jokingly.
"I would love that," she said immediately.
She surprised me again.

But this time I wasted no time. I really did drag her into the bathroom drunk on the power of impulse. I really did tie her legs sitting down and just for good measure clasped a collar around her neck and chained it to the handlebar behind her.
She looked happy.
I brought her the guitar and handed it over. The beautiful, black piece of equipment does her justice.
"Sing," I told her, "And don't stop until I say you can."
"Are you going to have sex?" She said laughing the way she always does.
"Yes."

She sang her songs; raspy, measured and operatic.
I sang my songs; high-pitched, helpless and depraved.
He sang his songs; rough, artless and gripping.
We sang our song.
It transcends the shackles of technique and flies free of dynamic.