He is on a mission. He needs to forget about his girlfriend, correction, ex-girlfriend. To forget about his troubles with the distraction of whiskey and women. And he is failing miserably.
“Fuck it! Ya’ know? I’m single now. I can do what I want,” he repeats his mantra more for himself than for me. I listen patiently as Rebound rambles on. I’ve been in his position before, we all have, and when the heart hurts the mind does what it can to cope. “I’m over it. I just couldn’t do it anymore. Could we have another round?” I’m happy that he keeps ordering drinks; otherwise he would be almost unbearable.
“All girls have daddy issues,” he declares and I feel a twinge in my eye. I couldn’t argue. I have them worse than anyone. Mommy issues too. Parent issues? Didn’t we all have parent issues, Dr. Freud? I refrain from verbalizing any opinion. He’s in pain and just needs to compartmentalize his relationship.
After a few more shots of various whiskeys we head to my place. At this point I know all about his beautifully disturbed former that is everything he wants provided she takes her psychiatric medication. She is violent but sad and apparently a handful. She sounds like she could be my best friend.
Discussion of Rebound’s ex reminds me of mine and since I can’t get a word in edgewise I think about them anxiously. His words could just as easily be theirs. I think about her exes. Did she date guys like mine? How different are our pasts?
We kiss but it’s not the hey-we-just-met awkward kiss, nor the I’m-going-to-fuck-you-silly passionate kiss I hoped for, but something strangely familiar. He kisses me how I imagine he had kissed his ex. Rebound is bound to her and I will be his means to detach.
His body language, however, is vastly different from his sweet smooch. He enthusiastically pulls off our clothes as if underneath this material lies that answer to a question that has stayed on his mind all night. Will this help me forget her? I’ve always liked them eager.
As he pinches the condom over his dick I realize I’m drunker than I thought. I like drunk sex; it focuses me. I don’t think about the past or the future, just what’s happening in the moment, what is about to crawl on top of me. Sober sex has the tendency to be awkward, as it should be, frankly. Sex is as fun as it is funny. The mere act of taking someone’s body part and putting it inside another rapidly pushing away and then pulling close reminds me of so many relationships including Rebound’s.
He fucks me sideways, fast and hard. His dick is pleasantly bigger than I imagined it would be for a thinner man. But like most males I know he’s incredibly insecure. “Does that feel good? Tell me you want it.” I’ve never been one to throw out compliments, in bed or out. No reason. Just didn’t like the idea of being asked. Seems to ruin the authenticity. That’s terrible. I should just work on it.
“It feels great! You’re so big!” I say a little too phony even though I completely mean it. I don’t like talking during sex. Unless it’s directional, “Get on top. Faster. Spit in my mouth.” I also didn’t like looking people in the eyes and that is another thing Rebound likes to do. I can see why he is boyfriend material. He genuinely wants to make sure I am pleased and we have an intimate connection. It’s starting to make me sick to my stomach.
I crawl on top of him and he winces in pain. I’m too drunk to know if it’s the position, the speed, or my weight but since I’ve never had anything less than praise from being on top I chalk it up to his preferences. If he wants to do all the work, by all means.
“How’s your pussy feel?” he asks as if concern for her well-being. Another question I hate.
I mumble, “Fine.” Which is clearly a lie since his cock is about half an inch thicker than I’m use to and he’s pounding me like a jackrabbit. I almost feel like saying, “Mind your business,” but refrain since I know I’m just uncomfortable by his sensitivity. I should probably engage with more guys like him. The whiskey isn’t working; I’m starting to think about all the assholes I’ve known and the bitch they have made me become. I use to be such a nice girl.
I want to scream, “Stop being so nice to me! It’s breaking my heart.”
It’s been over an hour and I came but he has not. “Must be the whiskey,” he defends himself. He keeps fucking me, looking me in the eye, and telling me, “Say you like it,” but now he adds, “It will help.” He clearly needs more than his cock stroked, it’s his ego that needs tending and that’s one skill I’ve never been good at.
Still too drunk for my own good I suggest not using a condom. Did I just say that? And he firmly declines. Whoa, he is a good guy. That girl is missing out. I suddenly feel really stupid that I would break one of my own rules. So I blow him. Correction, two of my rules. What the fuck is wrong with me?
More time passes and fatigue and whiskey are calling me to sleep. He still hasn’t cum but I decide it’s his problem.
I wake up to sunlight and him spooning me. I almost forget who it is behind me and in a second go from shock to relief. I never assume there will be a repeat performance and that most of my conquests are one-night stands. It keeps me from being disappointed. But something is different.
We fuck again with the same lack of ejaculation as a few hours before. “I think it’s mental,” I offer. He doesn’t want me. He wants her. And there is a part of him, namely his dick, that is trying to tell him that.
On the way back to the car and on the ride home verbal spooge explodes from my mouth. Now I’m the one talking too much. About my past relationships, my suicide attempts, people I’ve slept with. I can’t shut up. I want him to know that he’s not the only one with troubles; that while we’re not all in the same boat, we are all in the same sea. I want him to feel better.
While I eat breakfast alone I dissect the past 12 hours; why I broke my rules, why I gave up so much of myself, why – for the first time in a long time – I wanted to make it up to him or completely erase the night. He’s a romantic. A true, earnest, sweetheart that just couldn’t get it together with the broken people that surrounds him. He reminds me of me.