And then there he is, leering at me like he always does. Leering at me with the knowledge of knowing what it is like to fuck me, and what it feels like to watch me cum, and knowing that me seeing him on some deep, down there level is disturbing my aplomb affectation of being unruffled and unfussy. I take a moment to pause, and then I slap a smile on my face because it’s that time of day again: pretending to not give a fuck. Or, maybe I actually don’t give a fuck, but it irritates me that people (or person) I used to fuck think that they can come parading into my peripheral vision and demand my time and attention when clearly we are years past it being okay for me to dole out my precious time and attention on someone whom I have already proven to myself is not worth it. But I’m a cordial person, so I exchange casual pleasantries with him as I would with anyone else, and I wait for him to leave with that leering look on his face because, my god, can’t we all move on from this! Don’t we all have better people to fuck these days? I’m growing impatient because instead of talking to him, I could be talking to new booty, although then it occurs to me that new booty is probably just another man in a long line of men who are marching their way through my heart and into that ever increasing file in my mind labeled “men I used to fuck.” That’s fine, because new booty is still new booty and it will be at least two weeks before I grow sick of him. That’s all the time I need in order to feel better about myself, so I shoo away the one I used to fuck while I get love sick on new dick.