Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What the fuck?

I gun my car and race through the empty streets. The noise level is deafening and the buildings on either side are a blur. Dark, submerged tendrils uncurl inside my brain and begin to spin, like the eye of a fucking tornado it sucks in everything I have built. Everything that has seemed so real and so concrete comes out of the dark eye as worthless lies.

I change gears, the car screeches around the corner, and roars to a stop inside the underground carpark of my building. I leap out of the car. As I’m striding away I hit the remote and hear the doors wing down.

I’m so jazzed up on adrenaline. My foot taps the ground restlessly while I wait for the lift to arrive. When it opens I get into it, jab the button for my floor and step back. I can see my own reflection in the shiny surfaces of the lift doors. My hair gleams under the light and my body looks tense and tight.

The doors swoosh open at ground level, and one of my neighbors comes in. A woman. Beautiful, lush, blonde. She lives on my floor in apartment 9. The mistress of an Arab Prince. He only comes to visit during the summer months. His next trip is scheduled for the 17^th of this month. She has two weeks more to wait. I know every one of my neighbors. Their habits. Their backgrounds. The likelihood of them throwing obstacles in my way.

She smiles at me. It is a friendly smile, but I’ve known women like her. She wants to have her cake and eat it too. She’s had the money, but she’s decided she needs the reassurance as well, someone to hold her and tell her how beautiful and irresistible she is. Soon, she’ll be coming around to borrow a cup of sugar.

I nod distantly and stare ahead.

“You live in number five, don’t you?” she asks.

I turn to look at her. “Yes.”

She smiles again. “I’m in number nine.”

“Right.”

The elevator reaches our floor. The doors open smoothly. I raise my eyebrows to indicate that she should exit first. She gets out and waits for me.

“You should come around sometime,” she offers.

“Goodnight,” I say without looking at her, and go to my door.

As soon as I get into my apartment I take off my jacket and fling it onto the couch. I start removing the cufflinks from my cuffs as I walk through the vast, dimly lit hall. I leave the gold links on the dining table and begin to unbutton my shirt. I pull it out of my pants and discard it on the floor. I kick off my shoes and open the door of my training room.

I hit the lights, flick on the music, and turn it up loud.

I need to lose this tightness in my gut. I pull my undershirt over my head and chuck it in a corner. My pants join it. In the floor-length mirror on the wall opposite I can see my reflection. My muscles gleam under the spotlights.

I clench my fists. The compulsion to slam my fists against something hard is so strong it makes my bicep twinge. I indulge in this impulse often. It feels natural for me to turn my hands into fists. Humans might even have been genetically equipped to hit things. There is no denying that the brute solution of whacking a fist into someone’s face solves a lot of problems very quickly. From day one the act of throwing a punch was not just normal but even, I realized with slight shock, a fantastic high. My whole body tingled with exhilaration.

In my boxers, I walk to the cupboard and take out a bundle of gauze ribbons. I thread the rough-woven fabric across my palms and over my knuckles. Quickly, I loop them around the webbing between my fingers and the base of my thumbs. With my hands wrapped and protected, I pull out my heavy boxing gloves from the cupboard. Slipping my hands into them I secure them, the first with my free hand and the second with my teeth. An image of her flashes into my mind. I remember the heat rising from her skin. Her smell. The way her hair trailed on my skin. Her wide frightened eyes. That damn mouth. Hell! She’s a fucking innocent!

I don't need this shit.

I can’t let emotion cloud my judgment.

Rolling my shoulders to release the knots of tension in them, I walk to the heavy bag hanging from the ceiling. I grab its familiar solidity with both hands, take a deep breath, and start firing off punches. I dedicate myself to a simple combination. Jab, jab, straight right; jab, straight right, left hook.

Again and again and again.

I get a good rhythm going and pound the crap out of the 100-pound bag. The whole time I keep my mind blank, concentrating only on the profoundly satisfying thumping of my gloves hitting the leather and the jarring in my bones. It feels phenomenal when my muscles are working right. It’s a kind of Zen.

Upping my tempo to keep time with the music, I jog around the bag and alternate between kicking and punching it. After a few intense minutes, sweat starts running through my hair and seeping into my eyes making them burn.

I close them tight and try to focus: the bag is my enemy, but tonight the tornado in my head doesn’t give me the mindless concentration I am used to. My equilibrium is fucked. I can’t concentrate and it pisses me off. Control is everything to me. I control everything in my life.

Fuck it.

I want her.

I want to take her and to make her cum over and over until she is unable even to stand.

I stop suddenly, sopped in sweat, doubled over, hands on thighs, fighting to catch my breath. There’s no oxygen left in my lungs. I’m unusually fatigued. I’ve lost my inner balance and focus. It’ll be better once I fuck her, I tell myself. Once I get her out of my system, I’ll be back to normal. I need to fuck her soon. Not let it become an obsession. It’s just lust. Nothing more than that. Once I have her I’ll be able to walk away and never look back. There has never been a woman I could not walk away from. She is just another woman. There is nothing special about her.

The music stops.

Every muscle is screaming as I walk over to the skipping rope. Soon the only sound in the room is the sound of the rope whirling, and the rapid clicks it makes when it hits the floor.

I can do this.

I am in control.

Control is me.

No woman can break down my control. None.