The best sex I ever had was break up sex.
Technically, we had been broken up for three weeks. But he lived in London and begged me to wait until he got a break in his schedule and could come to New York so that we could do it face to face and not over Skype (the way I had originally planned). I agreed. I figured I owed him that much, and also myself for that matter. We had been together for three years and I was still wearing the ring he gave me—the ring he made me actually, with his own two hands.
And so I waited until he got vacation time and could afford to come over. I didn't sleep with anyone else during this time because, though we were broken up, I still wanted one last goodbye with him, and I didn't want him to have to wear a condom. I thought it would be horrible to have to explain to him in the heat of the moment that we should use a condom because I was already having rebound sex. Instead I took the ring off my finger and just flirted up a storm with everyone who wore pants. And I developed a mild obsession with a video artist who had gone to Bard and wore cool sneakers.
My ex flew in on Halloween and wanted to spend the night together. That request was taking things too far for me. I was 25 then and Halloween felt like Spring Break for New Yorkers. Hell, it's basically Christmas for American Apparel, and since there's nothing I love more seeing drunk people in unitards, it was also like Christmas for me. Thus, I did not want to spend my first single Halloween in years having a heart-to-heart with my ex. Not at all. Instead, I wanted to spend it getting finger banged by Bard Boy.
However, Bard Boy did not make things easy for me that Halloween night. In fact, he admitted to me halfway through our rooftop party that he was in love with my best friend, and followed that confession up by saying, “Doesn't she look amazing dressed as a sexy Jesus?” I looked down at my bunch-of-grapes costume. Previously I thought my costume was very clever but now I realized it was the definition of dumpy. I ran into the bathroom and systematically popped all my balloons with a safety pin I found hidden in the back of the medicine cabinet. Finally, I was in nothing but a body stocking with a bunch of deflated balloons stuck to me. That would show them who was sexy! I was too late though. When I came back to the party Bard Boy and my best friend had already left together.
The next day my ex showed up at my house with a dozen roses. “Who does that?” I thought with disgust. Clearly, I was still in a terrible mood from being rejected the night before.
Still, I invited him in and made him a cup of tea.
“Thanks. This is great,” he said.
“Do you have any paracetamol?”
“You mean Tylenol.”
“Yeah, right. I forgot what it was called over here.”
“What's wrong?” I asked.
“I hurt my neck.”
“Wrestling with Andy.”
This is the thing about knowing someone really well—too well, I would say. They can stop you dead in your tracks with how obvious their lies are.
“You didn't do that by wrestling with Andy! I mean, what is that even? You got it by fucking some girl.”
A small, sheepish grin spread across his face.
And that's when I really lost it.
“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