As his tongue touched the glistening rims of my flesh — raw and exposed — I knew this particular experience would grow into a catalyst for many more to follow. Exhilarating yet fragile. It was emancipatory, in a way I guess, yet not without a sense of debasement so obvious it resonated like an echo throughout the room. The carnality of it all, I thought, as revulsion merged with subdued excitement. 

After initial hesitation, his appetite grew. First, a careful lick. Moments later, a gluttonous gobbling. The clashing of tissue against tissue. Him; hunching forward. A strand of hair cleaving his left, hazel-coloured eye in two. At the sternal end of his clavicle, a muscle twitched erratically. I shift my focus back onto his lips where moist residue accumulated in the corners of his mouth. 

He devoured me. 
But then again, he always did have bad impulse control. 

                    Cue: switch roles.  

—Get ready 
He handed me the appetiser plate. A clean, flat design in diffused white. The vintage porcelain finish feels smooth to the touch. I run my finger along its belly and place it on the glass coffee table with the rest of the dinnerware. 

My movements are slow and out of sync. Aquatic. 

What little specks of colour the room did possess have been drowned out by the evening’s afterglow. At the far end of the tabletop, an abstract marble sculpture anchors a stack of vintage books consisting of, among others, a photographic overview of Brutalist architecture and a Tom Ford retrospective. Reflected in the glass, his body sits skewed and lopsided. As I wonder whether this distorted image excites or unsettles me, I draw a sharp breath. 
—I am

We had gone over it so many times. 
One scenario after another. 
Ruminating. 
Considering all possibilities. 
Each new thought circling back to this initial idea. 
The original fascination. 
When did it even begin? 

After due deliberation, we decided on slicing, as opposed to cutting, for fear of going in too deep. It seemed like the sensible thing to do. For the first time, at least. We settled on an electric kebab shaver. Professional grade, in the smallest size available. 

Perhaps it wasn’t the most eloquent solution, but it got the job done: trial runs had awarded our efforts with thin, rectangular servings of filet mignon. 2 by 5 cm apiece. The instrument’s machinery reverberated gently against the palm of my hand. I contemplated superficial notions of destiny, fate, and inevitability. 

                    Next up: begin.