Fucking in the Bathroom.

I had already unwrested a few of the buttons on my dress before I opened the bathroom door. I was drunk. It was late. Which was probably why leaning over and whispering, “Do you want to fuck me in the bathroom?” seemed like such a great idea at the time. What can I say. I was long overdue for some good, old fashioned caressing. Making out. Touching a stranger’s private parts, and having mine fondled in turn. Bending over and begging. Throwing down on the cold bathroom floor with my knees on the tiles and my hands on his chest. Little memories that come back to me in little clips, as though I’m rewinding through the preview for a porno. But, no, there it is, playing out in my mind in little bursts of embarrassment and laughter. 

That’s not the first time I’ve done it. Nor will it be the last. Sitting somewhere, drunk and lonely, most likely in public, in front of other people, and then I am overcome. It’s a bestial disease. As the alcohol reduces me to a stuttering, stammering, horny piece of meat. And if it weren’t for the fact that I actually want to fuck for more than thirty seconds, I’d suggest sweeping everyone’s half empty glasses off the bar so you could throw me down and fuck me in front of their faces, but I’ve noted that there’s a bouncer, and my friends are here, and I’m sure they don’t want to watch me get fucked by some random bar fly. Again. So, it strikes me, in my drunken stupor, to the bathroom! The bathroom. Any bathroom. Always the bathroom. Where it’s coldly bright, but even the light can’t cut through the haze of my memories as I try to recollect the faces and the words and the actions and the reasons why I should be hating myself right now.

Forced laughter. 

And when I wake up wherever the next day, hitting the pause on little moments that explain why my pussy aches just the way that it does right now, I begin to wonder. Do you hate me as much as I hate myself right now? Or did I do a good job? At fucking. You. In the bathroom.