Every muscle in my forearm trembles as I another senseless, humiliating life. The controller is greasy in my hands, I’m convinced the game is buggy, or else the algorithm has been tweaked to punish users who aren’t gen-z boys with lightning thumbs. It’s useless. These games are a maze with no cheese at the end. I toss the controller into the couch cushions and glare at the screen as if it’s personally betrayed me. No cheese, but plenty of rats. I can feel Cowboy’s presence in the other room, the gentle clinking of glassware, the soft hum of his off-key whistling, and it stings a little, a reminder of everything I could be doing instead of learning to loathe myself pixel by pixel. I know what will truly make me feel better. I call for him, voice sharp as a shot of gin. There’s a beat of silence, a moment of domesticated inertia, and then he appears in the doorway. He’s already anticipated my call and is dressed in the perfect pegging outfit. Some men look silly in clothed vulnerability, but he wears it with the ease of a man who knows exactly what’s coming. “Hands on the couch,” I say. The air thickens. He nods, the way a well-trained might, and places his palms on the squishy couch where I was sitting. I run my tongue over my teeth and watch him with clinical detachment, considering all the ways I’ll take back the dignity that’s so easily ground to dust for women like me. I reach for the lube, spreading it on every inch of my large, grey strap-on cock, a gleaming, severe thing that feels heavier in my palm than any controller. He spreads his legs obediently, feet planted shoulder-width apart, and I think: This is the most honest thing about us—the choreography of power and surrender. I press the tip to his asshole and let it rest there for a moment, just enough pressure to make his body tense. He’s breathing harder now, and I realize I’m holding my own breath, waiting for the right second to begin. I push forward, slow at first. Just the tip. Enough for him to feel every increment of invasion. The first inches are always a negotiation, a silent argument between body and will. The resistance, then the sudden, helpless give. He grunts, low and guttural, and I feel something ancient and electric light up in my chest. I slide further in, steady and relentless, watching the way his knuckles whiten as he grips the couch. It’s beautiful, in its way, the sight of him opening up, bit by bit, to accommodate something made expressly for this purpose. The rhythm builds. I pull back, then drive in deeper, harder, each thrust a punctuation mark. Cowboy starts to moan, and his voice does this desperate, breaking thing that makes me want to ruin him even more. I angle my hips, searching for the spot that’ll make his knees buckle, and when I find it, his body jerks with uncontrollable pleasure. I don’t let up. I want him to remember this—every inch, every thrust, every flush of humiliation and ecstasy braided together so tightly they’re indistinguishable. I want him to feel it tomorrow, walking up the stairs, sitting in dull faculty meetings, remembering the way I took him apart and put him back together. “You like that?” I ask, and he only nods, unable to form words. I slow down then, dragging it out, teasing him with shallow thrusts, soft and taunting. The power is exhilarating, more potent than any high score or leaderboard. This is mine. He is mine. When I finally let him go, he collapses onto the couch, panting, boneless, utterly spent.