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“You came all the way over here to tell me you fucked someone else? And now you're proud of it?"
I started crying. Then I started screaming. I said things about how he was clearly a psychopath and he should have told me in the first five minutes, and how he couldn't stay at my house and, also, how dare he? And then I sat down on the couch and got really quiet.
“So what, is she like really kinky? Do you do things with her that you wished you could do with me? Like have you fucked her up the ass?”
He looked at his hands and nodded.
I got up and slapped him.
I turned on my heel immediately and ran into the bathroom. I blew my nose and looked at my face in the mirror. I had mascara running down my cheeks, I was sweating profusely, and there was still snot all over my face. I could taste it on my lips. I decided then and there that I would make him have sex with me again. He was going to forget all about her.
I walked back out. “I'm sorry. I think I just need to lie down.” I went into the bedroom and sprawled across the bed leaving the door open.
He peeked in.
“Come lie down next to me.”
“I can't. I think I have to go have a cigarette.”
“Ok. Come back up after.”
He disappeared and I took off my leggings and sweatshirt and putting on a matching bra and panty set. They were the only pair I had, but they were dirty. I had to fish them out of my laundry hamper.
He peeked his head back in.
“Come lie down. Please.”
He sat on the edge of the bed stiff as a board. I moved over slowly, tickling his arm first, then putting my hand under his shirt. With total authority I unbuckled his belt. Then I pounced.
I climbed on top and before I knew it my bra was unhooked and he had slipped 2 fingers in my underwear moving them over to side so his dick could slip in. His jeans weren't even all the way off. It was hard and fast, full of the knowledge that if we slowed down for a minute and thought about what we were doing then we would have to stop. When I came, the color green dripped down from the top of my skull filling my whole body. He mumbled something and I couldn't hear him.
“Can I come in you?”
I started to cry. All I had wanted was this man to love me again, to want only me forever and ever. Then all of a sudden I couldn't believe that I was letting him have sex with me, and that I had initiated it. I couldn't believe that the fastest way for him to get back into my pants was for him to have fucked someone else.
Shit. I was easy.
Nick Hornby says that the best sex you have is not always the most important sex. But this sex was both. It was the best because of how perverse it was, how base, and how used I felt. It was exciting to be that angry and it was intoxicating to feel turned on, hateful, and disrespected all at the same time. It was the most important sex because the come down was so very hard.
I climbed off him, and we lay there together, soaked with so many bodily fluids—sweat, tears, cum, and snot. He's still the only person I would let see me that way.
“What are we doing?” he asked, stroking my hair.
My hand found its way to my favorite place: his armpit. I opened and closed my hand in a way that was intuitively comforting to me.
“I don't know,” I said.
Follow Lacy Warner on twitter @laceoface