Naked Succubus

Lola always chose her men the way other women chose handbags—something pretty, something flattering, something that made her feel more important when she walked into a room. He was no different. In fact, he was her favorite kind of ornament: young, beautiful, eager to please, and dazzled enough by her attention and clever manipulation that he never noticed the cost.

Lola wore him like a fashion accessory, a gleaming token of desirability draped across her arm. He made her look good, and that was the beginning and end of her interest. Lola fed his ego just enough to keep him close, and fed her own twice as much, but Lola never once reached for his soul. True love requires nurturing, tending, patience. Lola had no use for any of that. Lola loved the idea of him, not the man himself. Reality was irrelevant. What mattered was how others perceived her for being with him, how Lola shone in the reflection of his youth and talent.

That wasn’t love. It wasn’t even affection. It was hunger disguised as romance. And she was a pro at this type of fuckery.

He didn’t see it at first. He thought he was chosen, special, cherished. He didn’t realize he was being consumed. Lola took so much from him—time, innocence, possibility. He gave up marriage, he gave up fatherhood, grandfatherhood, a family. Her ego sucked the future out of both of them, though Lola would never admit it. Lola should have stopped it before it began, but greed is a powerful force, and Lola craved attention the way a drowning woman craves air. Having a beautiful young man want her made her feel alive, relevant, adored. Lola mistook that feeling for destiny. The drama was exhilarating.

He mistook it for love, at first, but then he realized what she was doing. She wanted a pretty man to take care of her. And he fell for it. And paid for it..

Lola hurt him more deeply than she ever understood or cared about. Lola took pieces of him simply because he made her feel important and relevant And all the while, Lola had a husband, a family, children who trusted her, who believed in the vows Lola had made. Lola should have honored them. But she didn’t. She was too selfish. Lola should have honored herself. Instead, Lola paraded the young man around like a trophy, a glittering badge of desirability pinned to her sleeve.

He was never a partner to her. He was never a beloved. He was an accessory—something to match her outfit, her mood, her need for admiration.

Lola never looked in the mirror. She never took accountability. And he never fully recovered. He suffered.

And somewhere deep inside, Lola’s ego got joy from it.