“That was some bomb ass fucking,” he says, putting himself back together before heading out the door.
“Yeah, it was,” I say from my pedestal of repose, still naked beneath these sheets.
“I think…that was some of the best sex I’ve had in a while. Or, in recent years,” he says wistfully. I smile, too, as I feel us dipping back into the shared memory of the shared experience that was me, just a few hours ago, with my ball gag on, and the belt around my neck, and the butt plug in, and the hitachi wand on, and him fucking me from behind with my face in the pillows and him watching himself in the mirror.
“Same,” I reply, still feeling the tightness around my throat and closing my eyes with the memory of rolling orgasms at 7 am still sending shudders down my spine. We look at each other, and then we look away, because he has to go right now.
“You know, I never put effort into fucking people. I usually just lie there. But with you…I don’t know, it’s different with you,” he says, still gathering his things at 1 pm on a Thursday. I laugh at that, mostly because I know what he’s talking about. What’s the point of putting effort into fucking if there’s no pay off?
I realize that the sex I have with him is the sex I’ve always wanted to have. I’ve fucked plenty of people in my day, so I know that sex like this doesn’t come around very often. We’ve been doing this for a few months now. On and off. Inconsistently for damn near a year. And that’s the thing about sex – you don’t get to sadistic, multiple orgasm, hours of cocaine sex right away with somebody. That takes time. Sure, I can usually tell from the first fuck whether or not there is the potential to have that kind of wild, all night sex with someone, but actually getting there – that takes patience. It takes building trust. It takes really liking a person even after all that time. There are certain levels that must get passed through before attaining the fifth echelon of fucking with someone. I certainly didn’t start out by having multiple orgasms with him, but, now, here we are.
If anything, I’m pleasantly surprised by how the sex has managed to evolve even throughout our inconsistent love affair. Sex in public, group sex, kinky sex. With most partners, they seem to give everything they have at the beginning of the love affair, and the sex tapers off and gets boring. But not with this one. With this one, the sex keeps getting better and better. Even months and months later, there are still surprises. There are still new things to try.
But all of this is unrealistic. I realize that I’ve found the unicorn of fucking, but of course everything comes with a catch. The catch here being: no one knows what the future holds. Especially with him. He could be whisked off to somewhere far away at a moment’s notice. He is unstable. He is unpredictable. He is inconsistent with his emotions and his availability. I could fuck him forever, but he will never be my boyfriend. I am having the best sex that I have had in a long time, but it is ephemeral and fleeting. It exists only in the moment, and then it is gone. Possibly forever, which is why I would like to hold on to it, but I know that is pointless.
I watch him walk out the door to go live his life without me. I wonder how many times today he’ll think about me. How many times he will play back our fast fucking at the break of dawn in my sweaty bedroom. I wonder what he’ll tell his friends he did last night. I wonder, although I know that the answer to those questions is pointless, mostly because in the modern era, what is thinking about someone worth if you’re not calling or texting? He won’t call or text me any time soon, but I will see him around. We will run into each other casually at bars, and then go back to my place to fuck again. Maybe. Probably. But he will never call or text me, because he doesn’t call or text me. That’s not what he does. That’s not who he is.
Perhaps there is someone else out there who can text and call me with some level of consistency, but I realize that anyone who does that probably isn’t going to be able to fuck me with the emotionally detached expertise that somehow makes this kind of fucking so good. Because there’s a certain modicum of cruelty and lovelessness that goes into the desperate, coked out, all night fucking. And it occurs to me that the level of criminality that is necessary to know how to fuck a girl like me with that kind of prowess – that there’s a certain level of violence that a person has to be okay with before fucking a woman so heartlessly.
He is my demon lover, and I succumb to demonic sexuality whenever he is around. He isn’t around very often, which makes me think that my soul still has a chance for salvation, but when he’s here, he is ruining me for all other men. Inch by fucking inch.