He is incomprehensibly cool, and he is lying here, on top of these sheets, in the thick of the stultifying heat of my 8 am bedroom while the fan makes so much effort to whip around the air and the stench on this pussy murder scene. Just hours ago, we were kicked back and doing key bumps in a room full of people, and now we’re naked and petering out. I’m weaving in and out of sleepiness, edging slowly into dreamland while he thrashes gently in his sleep. He is fighting someone in his dreams. I can tell by the way his arms twitch out punchy. And me, I’m still satisfying myself with the reel to reel playback of those orgasms he gave me: the big one, the two littles ones, and the final big one. That’s four, which is fantastic, and the next morning when he’s pulling his pants on one leg at a time, he tells me stories about dickmatizing girls who have never experienced multiple orgasms before. I find that to be funny, mostly because a man can be trained to give a woman multiple orgasms, but, yeah, the first time you experience it, it can be very special. I’m not dickmatized by him, but I sure do enjoy fucking him even in those sleepy, sloppy, too fucked six am sex scenes that we star in together about once or twice a month. I don’t let my vagina rule my emotions, but I also don’t let my emotions cloud my decision making process, and when I am in the process of deciding to fuck him again, I try not to let the morality of the situation bog me down. He is not a good person, and he is not good for me, but there’s something inherently valuable in fucking, so I go ahead and do it anyways. I wonder exactly how much he’s destroying me every time I slip off my panties and let his face slide in between my legs, but while I’m edging my way through plateaus of sexual satisfaction, that’s not really what’s on my mind. My mind is covered in burnt, blistered skin in moments like this, in moments of drugs and booze and up all night and unlimited fucking. I try not to feel embarrassed when my cocaine induced cottonmouth makes this episode’s blow job particularly unsatisfying. I try not to read into it too much when he talks selfishly about his other lovers. I have been well behaved lately, but that is no reason to induce jealousy or any other petty form of sexual competition. I feel both wan and bloated the next morning, or, rather, the next afternoon when we leave the house at 3pm and I have run out of clever, interesting things to say. He’s the kind of man who drinks too much, and he balked when he noticed that his friend had absconded with his bottles of Hennessy. The next day he tells me that no one can keep up with him when he drinks, and I ask him if that’s because he practices every day. He says yes. He says that the first time we had sex, he tried not to drink too much because he knew that if he couldn’t get it up, I would put him on blast on the Internet. I laugh because it’s true, and when we walk into his house the next day, his roommate is sitting there, wasted as fuck while alternating between almost crying and always screaming while recounting the story about how they’re all getting evicted. I take that as my cue to leave, and I wonder how many more cocaine love stories with him I have left in me before I become ugly. Probably not many, because I am wilting on the outside from the weather of cocaine, and I am faltering on the inside because cocaine only makes me awful, although, maybe he’s what makes me ugly and cocaine is totally fine. I’ll probably never find out because those two things are utterly inseparable, but that’s fine because I wouldn’t want one without the other anyways.