The one time we had sex I felt like I was an old television and my legs were the antennas. He would jerk and sway them around until he had proper reception and the position was just right. Like fucking Tune in Tokyo or something. In bed our conversation went a little something like this:
“Oh yeah… you like that baby?”
And I said “Ummm okay sure”
He said “Come on baby, that’s all you got for me. I know you like it. Tell me what you like.”
So I said “I like Citizens of Humanity jeans, Chai Latte with Cinnamon, anything by Douglas Coupland, the works of Simone Legano, and all-day breakfast.”
His thrusting became less-confident and lacked the same purpose than when he had begun. “Let’s not talk about that stuff right now. Let’s talk about THIS… How does it feel?”
I said “Like I am being rammed by a two by four attached to a punching bag.”
He pulled out.
“You’re a fucking bitch, you know that?”
“Yeah I do. And you should have known that too. You’re the one who insisted on coming here with me. What were YOU thinking? That I was just some submissive little whore who was going to sit here quietly and listen to your ridiculously primitive egomaniac sex-talk.”
He quickly jumped up and pulled his jeans on over his bulging thighs. I watched him eagerly waiting for him to leave so I could turn on the light and get back into my book.
“Are you a lesbian or something?”
“Depends on who’s asking… and since it’s you, then YES I am.”
“No. Remember? you tried to do that and failed miserably.”
He slammed the door behind him and I heard him sniffling as he walked down the hall. Poor guy, I had bruised his ego. I’m sure he’d go find some hole to stick his dick into and he’d be fine.
I opened my book and sighed with contentment.