Our romance is a three-act tragedy on its final decline. I feel like an actress playing the part of interested date. When he kisses me, I can taste his want and longing. He reeks of commitment and desperation.
Laying on a couch too formal for his apartment, I watch while he fumbles around in the kitchen. He twists and turns in the galley, wearing only boxer briefs, glancing over at me every couple of minutes with a wide smile. Tall and slender, he’s able to reach the top shelves for bowls and such but consistently drops everything on the floor anyways.
He looks like most young English majors; shaggy dark hair and bold black rimmed glasses framing a pale and freckled boyish face. Though he’s smart, creative, and sensitive, he’s becoming a bore. Our discussions about Hemingway, his essays, and reading Neil Simon’s play Chapter 2 to one another while naked in bed, all seem like someone else’s story.
His cliché bachelor pad rattles off facts like words on a diagram. Descriptions like ‘egghead,’ ‘know-it-all,’ and ‘Mr. Snoozeville’ appear above each stack of books. The half-empty glasses and abandoned pizza boxes read ‘creative slob’ and ‘broke college student.’ The semester is ending on this relationship but there’s still time for one last exam.
Returning to the couch with a bowl of popcorn and two mismatching plastic cups of Merlot, he continues with the summary of the movie from where he left off. “Then he realizes she’s fallen in love with him but by then he’s in too deep. You know the line, ‘All right, Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my close-up?’ It’s in here. You’ll like this.”
The opening credits roll and my wine cup empties down my throat before the first words from the narrator. All right, Mr. Snoozeville, I’m ready for our last fuck.
Wearing only panties and one of his over-sized nerdy tee shirts, I stand up and bend at my waist as I slide the lace over my curves. Stepping out of the delicate pile on the floor, my knees flank his thighs and my hand clasps around the back of his neck as the other reaches for his wine. His lips are soft and wet against my chest, collarbone, and neck. He kisses each swallow as I gulp down the sweet, red contents.
After pulling it through the slit in his briefs, I stroke his long, hard dick. His sweaty palms mimic by sliding up and down my hips and ribs in the same slow rhythm. My pussy is wet, dripping onto his ball sack, as I think of never fucking the future professor of long-winded stories again. Instead of fearing commitment, I am turned on by the breakup.
I pull off the dated shirt and squat over him to position the head of his dick just inside me. He grabs my hips and vacillates the tempo between fast and slow in a way that only makes sense to him. Fast. Slow. Fast. Stop. Fast. Slow.
He twitches and I know he is going to cum. He always cums quickly when I’m on top. I have only a few solid minutes before he explodes. I slide my hand to his throat, trying to encircle as much as I can, and force his submission with the weight of my body. But he pulls at my fingertips to hold my hand while we fuck. We are both selfish lovers. Fucking the way we want and rarely giving the other their chance.
While his sex feels good, he just doesn’t do it for me. I can’t help but compare him to other lovers. Though he is the equivalent of artisan Madagascar Bourbon gelato, he’s still just vanilla ice cream to me. If I don’t leave him I’ll start to make suggestions. Wear a blindfold. My girlfriend wants to join us. Just let me choke you a little.
I rock my hips in a curve, rubbing my clit against him as I grind. Short of using toys, this is my favorite way to simultaneously simulation my clitoris and cunt. Though it’s pleasurable, I know I won’t orgasm. It is more than physical titillation. More than intellectual incitement. There’s an unknown element in the chemistry that makes up attraction.
I feel his dick jump inside of me and I know it is over. He finishes and I am finished with him.