She said it without saying it stitched across that sheer cotton like a confession from a motel Bible, stained and reread too many times by sinners pretending to sleep.
“What did I do that was wrong?”
Christ. Where do you even start?
She stood in the yellow light of a busted lamp with a glass of something violent in one hand and her other gripping her hip like she owned the entire collapsing world beneath it.
There was a heat in the room, thick, mean, and so laced with pheromones it could have gotten a nun pregnant just by breathing it in too long. The wallpaper peeled like a scab, the mattress groaned like an accomplice, and the air reeked of sweat, lube, and ideological decay.
Her underwear—if you could call that flimsy scrap of translucent fabric “underwear” and not a psychological test for the weak-willed was embroidered in script so polite it might have been a church bulletin if it wasn’t sewn inches above her nuclear core. That question… a poisoned whisper wrapped in lace.
We’d met in a hellhole off the I-376 somewhere between ten years gone and a psychotic break. She was hawking thrift-store salvation in a roadside shack called “The Burning Bush,” half-strip club, half confessional, full madness. Her voice was molasses mixed with dynamite. Said her name was Halo, but the way she moved said she’d sold that to a demon with better offers.
The how doesn’t matter—not to you. Only that she was dangerous in the way that made you forget taxes, laws, and blood relatives. She didn’t talk much. She moaned in Morse code. She bit down on her wrists and reason. She said “stop” with her mouth and “don’t you dare” with everything else.
We ended up back in the hotel room, the kind with vibrating beds you feed quarters like some erotic slot machine rigged for ruin. She turned, peeled her skirt like skin, and asked me to read it out loud. What did I do that was wrong?
I laughed, the way you laugh when the ground under your feet isn't solid anymore.
“You want a list?” I slurred.
She didn’t blink. Just slid two fingers down the waistband and said, “Start slow.”
Her thighs were sweat-slicked dynamite, her skin tasted like regret and pink bubblegum, and her teeth left crescent moons on my shoulder that stung in the shower for a week. She liked bruises—both giving and receiving. She said she didn’t believe in good or bad, only what gets you off faster. She was a moral car crash wrapped in satin and sin. You didn’t talk to her. You survived her. Barely.
The where doesn’t matter. It was a room. A womb. A war zone. The bed sheets were already twisted like political promises. There was a mirror over the sink, cracked from a thrown stiletto. She called it “foreplay.”
The who? You already know. Me, a degenerate dropout of the American dream. Her, the final exam I never studied for. We were both addicts—me for chaos, her for control.
The when was sometime between 2:11 a.m. and the moment the universe hiccuped and decided to watch.
And the why?
Because we were sick of asking for permission. Because we knew better and still did worse. Because sometimes you want to burn a little slower, with someone who’ll light the match and watch you scream.
She came like a shotgun blast—loud, unexpected, leaving damage on the walls.
After, she pulled the panties back up, smoothed them across her hips, looked me dead in the eye, and asked again. Slower this time.
“What did I do that was wrong?”
I didn’t have an answer. I never will.
Because when you meet the kind of woman who sews her trauma into her underwear and makes you beg to read it, you don’t respond with logic. You don’t offer solutions.
You just lie back, bite the pillow, and pray she doesn’t ask twice.
