I love him, and I want to watch him bleed. As we sit here with our conversations, and there he is, naked in my mind but fully clothed in front of me. I would fuck him. I would fuck him and let him do whatever the fuck he wanted to me. He can hold me softly in the darkness of night, or cram me full of cock until I cry, “Uncle!” or is it “Daddy!” I can’t tell the difference right now, and I know that he’ll say no to every fantasy that I am fast forwarding through in my mind. Which is why I want to watch him bleed. Because he doesn’t love me back, and what else am I supposed to do if I can’t fuck him. I want to cut him and watch him bleed dirty across this bar floor. The weight of love in my heart is too much for me to handle.
I’ve been wronged by the men I fuck, and I’ve been wronged by the men I love. Maybe I bring it on myself, what with my widely known reputation for promiscuity and a penchant for fellating my way through various social circles. But I don’t play dirty. I don’t go behind people’s backs, I just opt to not volunteer answers to questions that haven’t been asked. But the things that these men do to me – often times, completely unwarranted, because despite being known city wide for my affinity for fucking, it’s sex, not a sexual competition. I don’t make the first move, because, fuck it, I don’t want to engage in fuck wars with my sexual partners. I don’t want to play the no-winners game of mutual humiliation and degradation that seems to be so common among all these sadistic 20- and 30-somethings. Finding out that my exboyfriend is fucking my coworker. Finding out that last week’s hook up is fucking my roommate. Finding out that my exboyfriend is fucking my exgirlfriend. Throwing a party with my friends, and the guy that I’m fucking shows up with his girlfriend. Really, people, what kind of behavior is this? Why is this happening? I understand that these men are insecure about me fucking their friends, or maybe they’re insecure about me fucking black men, but I don’t throw the first punch. My cards are on the table, and I play the game politely. I respect people’s emotions. Anyone who assumes that he is the only one is a fucking idiot, so while I respect your emotions and your desire to feel like you’re the only flower in my garden, I truly do not respect your ignorance of everything that I’m putting onto the Internet at this very moment. It’s here for a reason, and while I would love for you to try to “change me” (because that’s so much fun! I like to watch you lose that game.), your attempt at trying to get a rise out of me is ultimately going to fail because instead of engaging in the incredibly vindictive behavior that I’m known for, I’m going to take this gesture as a sign that it’s 100% okay for me to start fucking all your friends. And being totally indiscreet about it, because I try to be discreet. I do try, but sometimes I fail, and now that we’ve broken up, and we’ve gone full circle and are back to being “just friends,” that means I get to smile in your face with your friend on my arm, and that feels so fucking good! So good. Because, just so we’re clear, I’m not fucking your friends for the benefit of your personal jealousy, I’m doing it because I love having sex. I want to have sex with your sexy friends. And it’s exactly what you deserve, because this is what you get for surprising me at work when my other casual sex partner is sitting at the bar and penciled in for the evening, taking that as a sign that I’m a horrible person, and turning around and fucking my friend for revenge. That’s an incredibly small thing of you to do, showing up to places where you weren’t invited and getting mad when you don’t get exactly what you want. The world is unfair, and you have to deal with that, and, no, fucking my friend isn’t going to make me jealous. It’s just going to make me overly aware of exactly how insecure you are. And you’re very insecure.
Let’s drag these fuck wars out over years. Ten years, to be exact, and while you may have won the battle, I am in this for the long con. I am in this for this for as long as it takes to have no winners, because, let’s be honest. I don’t really have anything else to do in my spare time. I have a good job, I make a decent amount of money, I buy nice things, I have good friends. But, between all of those things, I have ample spare time and I get pretty bored at times. So, I’m going to remedy my ennui by ruining your life. Sure, I know that’s petty and small of me. I know it’s vindictive and shallow and maybe indicative of a paucity of empathy and kindness on my part, but, hey, I already finished all five seasons of The Wire, and today I have nothing better to do. So, let me ask you: what are you doing for the next ten years? Because I’m going to be here, and I’m ready.
I’m supposed to feel jealous. I know this, as I’m sitting here in my bedroom, feeling a little perplexed as to why the guy I fucked on Tuesday is stumbling from my roommate’s room on Saturday. I don’t say hi as I sit there, slightly peeved by the situation, and I don’t talk to my roommate for the next couple of days because I don’t engage in sexual competition with other women. I always lose, so what’s the point, and it occurs to me that my erstwhile casual sex partner might have decided to shack up with my roommate for a variety of reasons, including but not limited to: is he upset that he know we’ll never date because I’m too busy fucking around with like three other people to even give him the time of day? I’ll give him the time of night for about ninety minutes if he wants, but anything other than that is too much. Or, is he trying to play the game with me where he does something fucked up and rubs it in my face just to get a rise out of me? Am I supposed to be following him into the bathroom and screaming at him after he crawls out of my roommate’s room? Am I supposed to go into her room and start throwing her stuff out the window? Because, clearly, that’s not going to happen. He’s one of many, and I’ll quickly toss him out of the rotation, but not before being mildly irritated by this flagrant transgression. Or, is this the real deal? Am I overestimating their emotions, and is this just a simple case of all of a sudden they fell in love. Because, I mean, I guess that could happen. Maybe on one of his drunken, stumbling trips from my room to the bathroom, they met eyes in an instant and then they knew: they were in love. And who gives a fuck about me, as I’m sitting on my bed with my sheets that I still haven’t washed since Tuesday, and they’re canoodling in there with their highly orgasmic sex and sensations of the truth of love. It’s not really my decision to feel merely slightly annoyed with the situation, nothing more, and nothing less. It’s something that I have to do, especially seeing as he was, what, number three in the rotation? Third down on the list, and, sure, I guess he is passing acquaintances or maybe really good friends with number one and number two, but I don’t rub it in his face. I don’t sit in bed next to him and announce, “I’m texting your friend so-and-so to see if he wants sloppy seconds!” I do that silently, without letting him know, because I know that he would be slightly wounded if he knew that the person I text after having sex with him is someone who has a slightly larger, definitely prettier penis that he knows how to use really well. I guess my number three is just a casualty of the fuck wars, and should I be mad that he’s playing dirty? No, I can’t be mad. Because I know what’s going to happen after this. Tomorrow, they’re going to decide that they want to date. The day after that, I’m going to have to see them sitting in her room, his arm around her while they watch Game of Thrones. And for a few days after that, they’re going to be in a hunky dory, monogamous relationship. Eventually, they’ll break up, and when they break up, I’ll get a text message from him, and then we’ll fuck again, and it won’t make me feel any better about everything that has transpired, but at least I’ll feel 75% vindicated. I’ll make up for the other 25% of vindication by fucking four of his friends in a very public way.
I ask myself if I feel badly, but I don’t because I lost the capacity to feel guilt a long time ago. Or, not “lost” it, but, more, trained myself to abandon those sticky, icky little feelings of guilt. When you live the kind of life that I live, guilt is a mere inconvenience. Something that becomes a waste of time, so instead I lie there next to him and watch him watch his phone ring. I can’t see from this vantage point who is calling, but it’s highly likely that it’s his girlfriend. And here we are, after the deed is done, and I wonder if he’ll tell her. If she’ll find out. If she saw us leave that party together, but she didn’t, because she wasn’t there, but then I wonder: who saw us leave that party together? Somebody? Anybody? Any snitchy little gossip who’s going to run home and tell her? Although, no, I can smile shyly and say that we merely shared a cab home together, and didn’t fuck like dogs for an hour before finding ourselves in this uncomfortable post-coital repose, with him and his phone and me and my unchecked sense of guiltlessness. I feel no guilt, and the next time I see her in public, I’ll make casual yet polite eye contact while acting all innocent and trying not to replay vivid memories of his dick in my mouth while we exchange pleasantries. Because I am innocent, right? I haven’t done anything wrong. I fucked him because I wanted to, and the superimposed morality of monogamy and fidelity isn’t something that I subscribe to. Fuck and be free forever. Fuck and be free forever. Fuck and be free forever. Not, “Have sex with people that you’re supposed to have sex with and just be content with that.” No. It’s “fuck and be free forever” for a reason, and why shouldn’t I have sex with everyone I want to. Right now. I’m a glutton for other women’s boyfriends, but so what. I’m a knife wielding, gun owning, throw down in a fight, best dressed, sexy as fuck woman. I fuck who I want, and I discard them like yesterday’s old news. I feel no guilt about feeling good, because guilt is an inconvenience that I can’t be bothered with.