I thought he would be a safe bet.
He was the bartender. He was charming, smiling with just the right amount of sexy glint, talkative without being too nosy, and his manners were perfect: flirtatious without being crude, and always, he kept an unspoken safe distance.
So, naturally, I assumed he was a pro, a seasoned player.
How could I be so completely wrong about men all the time?
When I had wanted a monogamous, committed relationship, I fell for a heartless prick. Now that I want uninhibited fun, I attract a genuinely nice man who has acquired his flirtatious skills only as part of his night-time job.
Guess I suck at judging character.
Oh, and guess what, I am pondering all this while giving an anonymous man a blowjob.
Well, not totally anonymous. We chatted online for a full half-hour before I invited myself over to his apartment.
His cock was already hard and throbbing when I arrived.
The only thing I can be certain of is my oral skills. Even the worst cheater in the galaxy, aka my ex-husband had said that he missed it, so that must be something.
“Fuck, you really are the best blowjob in the world,” Brendan (or is it Bentley?) is saying.
“Mmm-hmm,” I mumble through the sloppy mess in my mouth.
“Wait, wait, I want to fuck your pussy too.” He pushes my head back. I look up and see him concentrating on holding in his cum: his face almost blue, eyes tired and bloodshot, with sweat framing his temples.
Such a glorious sight. This is the kind of high quality fuck-flesh I keep finding effortlessly.
I used to marvel at how men could find one night stands so easily. Now I have insider knowledge. It is not about finding “a person,” it is about recognizing a quality that such people exude: a fine mixture of desperation, boredom and addiction.
The first time I pretended having casual sex was normal felt like a shock and a lie, but that shock and that tiny voice of the conscience were quickly drowned and then replaced by a strange elation: hunting and being hunted for only carnal pleasure were flattering in a sick way.
I guess there must have been an irresponsible slut in me all along. Surely you do not just become one if you never had it in you.
I lazily circle my clit and slide my fingers in and out of my pussy while I wait for Brendan to slip on his condom to fuck me on the bed. I am mildly wet.
Conventional as this may sound, I love intercourse, especially the good-old missionary position. The warmth of a cock thrusting inside me is satisfying in a very instinctive, animalistic way. Each push of that cock makes me feel a little more desirable and it chases the emptiness away. The embrace between two bodies gives a sense of safety and belonging that I still crave, tramp that I have become.
“You like this?” Brendan asks as he slides himself inside me.
“Yes. I love this.” I am not lying. My legs clamp in his cock inside me deeper, harder.
“You are so hard, so big, you fill me up so, so, so good…” Now I am lying.
“You want me to cum now? Or pull out and shoot over your belly?”
“Now. Shoot everything in me.”
He finishes, screaming something in another language, possibly someone’s name, and then flops silently next to me.
“That was great. Thank you.” I get up.
“You don’t want a beer or something?”
I turn to face him: classic example of saying words with one’s teeth without any meaning attached.
“Maybe next time. I gotta go.”
Downstairs, there is hardly a breeze. Maybe the weather really is changing.
The emptiness catches up with me sooner than usual.
My feet bring me to the street where the bartender with a heart works.
Do I walk in and ruin his life, or do I walk away and leave him to a nice girl who will actually deserve him?
My fingers are growing numb.
If the next person who walks out the front door is a man, I walk in; woman, I leave.
The door swings: a couple walks out together.
Even the Universe refuses to give me straight answers.
The door swings again.
My heart skips two beats.
It is him.
I walk over.