For an object that was supposed to be a symbol against pregnancy, against the very nature of sex, he turned it into something more intimate. His fingers would trail up my arm and seek out the small, unnoticeable bump there.
First he poked at it, pushed it around, rolling the little bar beneath my skin, gaze fixed to the spot in fascination. He would shudder, disgust flickering across his face and yet he couldn’t help but continue to reach for the spot.
He would find it without looking – while sitting on the couch, while walking, while in bed. His fingers pressed into the implant and he would kiss me, both drawn to it and repulsed by it, in a strange, surging intimacy.