I’m looking at him, and I’m wondering how, exactly, I’m going to get him to fuck me tonight. It won’t be hard, and I’m a goal-oriented person, so this little task of mine will fill up the upcoming hours of drinking with something that will surely trigger a surge of serotonin and reward-based behavior into my brain. So I sit there, and I smile, and I clutch my drink as rearrange the various elements of my meticulously picked out outfit. I try to look cute. I try to be charming. I try to say things that are witty and timely. This is so fucking easy.
As I sway on my stool and look deep in his eyes. Place my hand on his leg as I laugh and act catty. Is he picking up what I’m putting down? Will he buy me a drink? I’m not sure where he’s at in his mind, but right now I’m thinking that it’s probably easier if we go to his place and not mine so that I can take a cab back at four in the morning and wake up refreshed and alone after a bit of vigorous fucking. He’s probably thinking, ‘I wonder if she’s down to fuck me?’ I’m already ahead in the game.
And I don’t really know him, he’s just some dude that I met this one time that seemed like he’d be ripe for a fast night of drinking and noncommital fucking, and, if I play my cards right, I can sneak out in the night and never call him again. Ignore him vaguely, or respond to text messages with vague plans that never come to fruition and intermittent jokey-ness. That seems ideal. Because who knows who the fuck this guy is, or what is he dreams are, or where he works, or where his family’s from. Right now he’s just some guy that has been put on this planet to satisfy my sexual yen for dick between legs and then nothing else at all. No conversations, no inside jokes, no dates next Friday. Just fucking, right now. That’s all.
Although, he may be unaware of this, because I have laundry list of interested questions accompanied with intense eye contact that is meant to imbue a sense of intrigue and attraction into this particular situation. It’s meant to seem genuine. It’s supposed to feel real. It’s supposed to feel like the beginning of something exciting, and seeing as I love beginnings, and I can’t stand endings, this is what it is. Nothing more. A feckless beginning to a future nothing, and I wonder what he’ll say tomorrow morning when I’m gone and his dick aches with pleasure and the memory of me. Will he feel fulfillment? Regret? Some wanting for more? Shame? Lust?
I’ll never find out because I’ll never ask, although at times I come around for seconds. And, yes, this plan has backfired on me many times, but it’s worked out more than I can figure right now, so, statistically speaking, yes, it’s worth it.
I break off pieces like meat, and I fuck, and I feast, and I leave, and the heap of bleeding flesh I leave behind looks exactly like the last one, and exactly like the next one. And there’s no time for stopping and feeling, just fucking and feeding.