Jerk

One Year Later

11. Bad Guys

I slam his back against the kitchen wall.

A plastic bowl and a spoon topple from the counter nearby and crash to the floor.

His eyes flash with surprise as my lips descend onto his neck, then devour their way south. His shirt is in the way, so I rip it open. He gasps with surprise. I hope this wasn’t his favorite shirt. Also, I don’t care. I press a row of kisses across his chest to his nipple, where I cause it to harden beneath the flat of my tongue. Then I trade it for a sadistic nip with my teeth, and he responds by filling my kitchen with a groan of delirious pleasure.

They always groan with delirious pleasure.

Fast-forward however long, and I’ve got the guy naked and bent over the arm of my couch. Isn’t that how it always happens? To be more accurate, he isn’t fully naked; his socks are still on, which he didn’t have time to pull off before I took him over like a ragdoll.

The condom is on, I’m lubed up, and I’m fucking him with my eyes closed. My hands grip his waist so firmly, he doesn’t go anywhere. He’s tight, and my raging-hard cock is feeling every slick, electric thrust as I pound him deeply. The fleshy claps I make against his ass as our bodies ram together fill my ears like the drum line to my favorite song, further textured by the rhythmic creaking of my couch as it protests. The music is ruined only by his annoying grunts, which come in a perfect rhythm as I fuck him—and escalate in pitch the longer we go.

The truth is, he could be any guy in the world.

This could be any ass. Any groan. Anyone. It doesn’t matter. It’s doing its intended purpose tonight: getting me off.

Except for that annoying grunt he keeps making.

Finally, I’ve had enough. I pull out, flip him over, and toss him at the couch onto his back. He gasps, wide-eyed, as I come forward, throw his legs over my shoulders, and start fucking him from the front. His jaw drops to his chest as I pump him hard and rough, staring into his face and gripping him. “Oh my god! Oh my god!” he cries out, his voice trembling with delight. I guess he’s traded his annoying grunting for praying to the Holy Father. And it isn’t even Sunday. “Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my g—”

My hand slaps over his mouth, muffling him.

I shut my eyes and keep fucking him like a manic animal. He slobbers against my palm as he continues to moan unintelligibly. I’m getting close, racing toward the edge, hungry for release.

The edge passes me by faster than expected.

I come so hard, I can’t feel anything but floating, weightless, merry bliss.

Every single time, it seems to last forever, this euphoric reward.

And then it ends so quickly.

Fast-forward ten minutes later, I’m standing on my balcony in just my underwear with a glass of sparkling rosé at my lips. It’s no longer my sad drink; it’s my celebratory drink, and I have it every time after a good night’s fuck. A glass of rosé is basically my post-lay cigarette.

“Can I ask a question?”

I don’t even turn around. “Nope.”

“Who were you thinking about when you fucked me?”

I take a sip of my drink. I have no idea what the dude’s getting at, but the fact that he hasn’t left yet is getting annoying. I glance over my shoulder. “You’re still not dressed.”

He sighs as he slips on his shirt, then inspects a stain as he talks. “It’s obvious you go somewhere mentally. Your eyes are always closed.”

They always get feely and talky afterwards. “So?”

“I was just wondering. I’m not hurt or anything. Actually, you can totally tell me who it is. Is it an ex of yours?”

“Why aren’t you gone yet?”

“Can’t find my phone. Also, you tore my shirt. That was really hot at the time, but … this was my favorite one.”

“You’ll find a new favorite.”

“This is a designer brand, too. Ugh, where’d I put my phone …? Really, it’s okay to tell me who you were thinking about. You know … for next time.”

Next time, he says. Adorable. “I don’t do next times.”

“Maybe we could role-play, if you wanted.” He obviously ignored my remark. “I could be him, if that’s what gets you going.”

I freeze, my glass not quite to my lips.

No one can ever be the man I think about. No one will ever be him. No one can ever compare.

“Or,” I say, “you could be the guy who just left my apartment and stopped lingering like some sad fucking puppy who won’t shut up.”

Silence. I glance over my shoulder to find him at the end of the couch, phone in hand.