On Looking in the Mirror

Love, listen 
You gotta own up to this shit too 

Because no, it’s not your fault that he’s a lying asshole 
But it’s on you that you said

“I’ll be patient.”
“No, don’t worry about it.”
“I promise it’s okay.”

When it fucking wasn’t okay. 

Because you are the one that prides themselves on being chill. 
On never being called crazy, or at least, not to your face. 

Because you have seen women, so many women, who let their emotions ride them and force men into that passenger seat. Who can’t let little things go. 

But those little things add up. Those little things mean something. And chill does not mean that you don’t have emotions. That you feel nothing. 

And because you’ve not been monogamous, you haven’t had a real, concrete relationship, you haven’t learned how to speak for yourself. To say, this isn’t right.
This isn’t how I should be treated. 
You’re not my boyfriend, but you fucked up. 

Instead you say 
You’re not my boyfriend, so I have no right to be mad. 
Even though you are.

And that’s on you. 

For setting the standard so damn low and being annoyed when even that isn’t met. 

Because my darling you deserve the moon 
The stars 
Flowers and hugs and kisses on the cheek. 
You deserve to have your hand held 
To be introduced as, ‘You know, that girl I was telling you about?’ 

Just because you aren’t monogamous doesn’t mean you are undeserving of respect 

Maybe if you didn’t act like you knew you weren’t, and didn’t deserve to be, his number one
He wouldn’t make you his number two

You’ve spent so much time bottling it inside, swallowing your emotions down, allowing tension to creep through your shoulders and to turn your muscles to cement to contain the feelings threatening to drown you. 
And when asked a question, instead of the answer you want to give, your flood may leak over, you may speak in nonsensical ways because you are not just batting with what you should say – you are battling with yourself if you should say anything at all. 

And through the mess you see what you fear the most. 
That look of 
‘You’re crazy.’ 

But now you’re sitting here wondering why he’s not texting you when you gave him carte blanche 
To treat you however he choose 
While you say 
‘It’s fine, I’m here for you.’ 
While you’re dying on the inside 
Wondering what you’ve done to deserve this 

And you did not ask for this level of jackassery 
You did not ask to be treated like shit 
But you did not demand better 
Because you felt you couldn’t 

That, my love, is what’s crazy 
You know you deserve more 

That someone fucking up your night and saying ‘I’ll make it up to you…Netflix and chill?’ Is not enough 

That someone saying ‘It’s just so confusing right now, I know she wants monogamy but…you’re just so cool.’  And then taking her on dates but ignoring you for days on end, is not okay. 

That someone saying ‘I promise, she means nothing,’ taking you home with them, then announcing on Facebook she’s their girlfriend is some cheap shit.

You are allowed to be upset. You are allowed to feel. And calling out this bullshit should not be your responsibility – but it is.

Because you have to be your own cheerleader 
Your own advocate 
Your own coach and overprotective best friend 

Because if you don’t set that standard so high that it provides you shade is this sweltering sunshine

Why on earth would he?

On Distraction

If I fill my calendar 
With drinks 
Coffee 
Lunches 
Work 
Training 
Sex 
Then I won’t think about you
Right?  

If I scan through apps like it’s my job 
If I search for something, anything, that’s like you but not you 
Then will I finally forget you? 
Will the memory of your touch flee from my mind? 
Will I stop looking up when I see someone who looks like you, not want to flinch away from them, because I see you in their eyes, their nose, their movement? 

And if I keep my brain occupied enough, paint my nails to stop myself from biting them, focus on everything that is not you, then each day should be easier. If I let the days become a blur, will it take a month, two, three, before I can go back to the places you took me and the drinks we had together and not care? 

And with each day I don’t hear from you, will it be easier to forget why I wanted to hear from you in the first place? Remember that you are replaceable, that you were the placeholder on the road to something better? 

Or, is that how you think of me? As a temporary solution to a problem you wanted to ignore, to be cast aside when it was convenient? 

I will never know. 

Maybe with time 
My resentment 
And my anger 
And my hurt 
Will fade

And I can think of you the way I want to 
With a fondness and dull ache 
Instead of the bubbling of something I don’t know how to process when your song comes on 
Or when I see your book on my shelf 
The bottle on my counter 

So I’ll preoccupy myself. 
And forgive myself that I need time, and probably will for a while. 

And I will hope you don’t show up 
Making me start all over again 
Unless you’re there to stay.

On A Drinking Game

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Written at the end of a very long day. Meant to be all in fun. Would write a female version, but I don’t have any experience with female profiles on Tinder. If someone wants to write that and link it to me, I’ll probably repost it if I think it’s funny.

Use Responsibly!

TINDER DRINKING GAME

Take 1 drink each time you see:

A professional headshot ala American Psycho
The picture doesn’t include the guy
The picture includes the guy but the guy is out of frame so you have to go to the profile
The picture includes a girl that could be an SO
The picture has poorly edited out other people
The picture basically has neon lights screaming DOUCHEBAG
The picture has you wondering where the bodies are buried

Take drinks each time:

The profile advertises the guy as some version of “dominant, *nudge nudge wink wink*
The profile openly advertises for a sub/slave (+1 if the guy has a gf and they are vanilla)*
The profile has any pseudo philosophical quote, i.e. You can’t destroy energy, only transfer it
The profile advertises the height of the guy as it relates to dick size
A girl popped up, & that’s not what you’re digging right now.

Take drinks each time:

The profile advertises height as though they didn’t want to/it’s a chore
The profile says the girl has to message first
The profile “can’t believe they are on Tinder again”
You got through almost all/all of the pictures onto to see one that fell under the first category and/or once you read the profile

Blearily take a sip while continuing to swipe when:

You got so lost in swiping you’re pretty sure you passed a soulmate 5+ ago, and can’t do anything about it and it’s too much effort to care.

*Added because there is a website for this – Fetlife. Although people get angry on there too because its supposedly Kinky Facebook and Not Kinky Tinder. Because nobody can win, I guess. 

 

On Iron Man vs Hulk

sex-dice

He was the hottest guy in a five mile radius of my friend group, with a giant stockpile of charisma to boot.

 

I was seeking anything remotely like machismo to pull me out of a seemingly never ending rut.


I was warned he was the biggest player of the players, the biggest man-whore of the man-whores, and don’t touch or you’ll get burned.

And I looked at that and said, But, actually? Sounds perfect.

We met at a flat party, and discussed video games, and I tried to suppress my nerdom in an attempt to impress, but actually ended up in a half an hour conversation about button masher games. He then invited me to join the group going to see the next Marvel movie together and we freaked out at all the same moments, while our other friends watched and rolled their eyes at the ongoing battle that ensued the entire movie.

I will forever and always be team Iron Man.
He thinks Hulk will always be able to kick Iron Man’s ass.

 

Had we ever actually slept together, our idea of foreplay would have been discussing the scene in the first Avengers movie where Iron Man throws the nuclear weapon out into space, and then Hulk saves Iron Man’s life. We would have been stripping each other while arguing about which moment was more badass, fuck each other’s brains out, and during the after sex cigarette resume a similar argument as a pump up for round two.

But, alas, we never did sleep together. Not that we didn’t want to.

I was out with a group of girls, he was out with a group of guys, we ended up at the same club. We saw each other, he got me a drink, and we ended up dancing together. He kissed me, and boy was a damn good kisser. We continued dancing, he kissed me again.
It would be the last time he ever did so.

He invited me for coffee the next day, and I was excited, if a bit confused.
What would this mean? Where did we stand?
We chat about nothing for a while before he finally got around to the subject.
He had a girlfriend, which I knew.
He had an open relationship with the girlfriend, which I knew.
He was not allowed to fuck other people he cared about, which I did not know.

Ah. Uh. Heh.

I want to delve into the different types of relationships (polyamory, open, monogamy) in a different post, but I have been fairly open about being polyamorous for about 4 years now. Basically, since I heard the word, did some research, and had that glorious moment of Oh shit everything in my romantic life finally makes an iota of sense. 
And I don’t (or at the very least, try my best not to) pass any judgements on other people’s various poly/open/mono setups. I understand that what works for me may not work for you or the next person or the next person. 

But back to Hulk boy.
Basically, it flew in the face of everything I had been told about him. And my brain just went to:
So a one night stand is okay, but I’m not okay?
Are you telling me you care about me? That I matter more to you than that? 

This question was never entirely cleared up, but I do believe that, yes, I did. He would come over immediately on my days off work, he would sometimes try to hold my hand when he’d had a bit to drink, he would give me a look sometimes, that I know meant something, though what, I can’t say. And I have to admit I liked him too. I was annoyed I was being strung along, sure. But, I have to admit that there was a part of me that liked being liked by him, especially when everyone had said he was incapable of such emotion.

Which is why it really sucked when I found out he’d told his girlfriend’s best friend that I was a sure thing.”
Don’t talk about any woman, any person like that. I have not, will not, and will never be anyone’s sure thing. Not in the least because as a human being, I am capable of changing my mind at any given moment.

So I froze him out. I threw a halloween party and didn’t invite him. He found out, he asked why I was mad. I told him. We had lunch, he apologized profusely. He refused to eat his vegetables. I added them to my soup.
We were saying goodbye, and he gave me a look like a little lost puppy.

“Are we friends now?” He asked, so sweetly it would’ve melted any lingering annoyance I might’ve felt.
“Of course we are,” And we hugged.

He was a summer…I don’t know what you’d call it. He’s someone I remember with a smile on my face. I remember flirty conversations and playing Kings in my living room with a wonderful group of people. I remember him coming to have lunch with me at work and showing me pictures of his vacation. I remember laughter and light and fun. I remember poker games and pizza. And I’m sad we weren’t anything more, that we never had ridiculous nerd debate infused sex. But, at the same time, maybe it’s okay Hulk boy is just Hulk boy, and not anything more. Maybe it’s okay some people will remain just as they are in your memory, light moments of fun, never to be tainted, and no longer possibilities. They’re people you can think about, and honestly and truthfully still call a friend. 

On The Bad Stuff

I’ve been running into this problem lately, of only remembering those stupid ass moments.

When I fucked up.

When I got too drunk.

When I said something stupid.

When you had to deal with my incompetence and idiocy.

And I don’t want to only remember these moments, because for one, it makes it sound like you’re perfect, and no one is, and two, I want to remember the other moments.

When we lay on your couch doing nothing all day.

When I made your coffee in the morning, and wafted the scent towards your nose to breathe life into you.

When you put your hand on my knee.

When you made me talk about things without a hint of uncomfortability, pushing past my layers of shyness, so you knew exactly how to to pull me to you, hands around my wrists, holding me steady as your tongue made earthquakes travel through my spine.

 

I want to hold on to you as a whole. I want to be able to look you in the eyes, and know that we are on equal ground. I want to know that one day you will crush me into a hug again and I will not dwell on this, that, or the other but only on that moment, on your arms and skin and feel of you around me.

I never expected to feel an intensity with you, and you still don’t know all of these feelings rattling around in my head. Because when we talk it’s about something related to a previous conversation. It’s me sending you a TV show release date. It’s not us talking about the intricate details of our lives, our thoughts, our feelings. It’s not those kinds of conversations anymore.

Maybe it’s just the unsettled-ness of my life right now, but it’s so easy to dwell on the negative, to focus on my faults and my derp moments, that which makes my brain say – well you had fun, but do you really expect them to stick around when you’re such a dumbass?

But I know this isn’t fair, or true. People come in and out or your life for such a variety of reasons. Maybe you’ve got a blog somewhere writing about the depths of my ineptitude, but I don’t think so. (Others on here, maybe. But not you.)

 

You sent me three words the other day, and it helped far more than you know.

 

I miss you, too.

 

On Bitter Disappointment and Disappointed Bitterness

overqualified

The first time the ‘just close your eyes and think of Europe’ line applied was also the first time a guy ever went down on me.

This had been a long time coming.

Not because of any particular attraction I felt towards this person, but because we’d been explicitly told not to do it.

Another girl he’d been hooking up was a friend of mine, and one night she called me while messaging him – telling me if anything happened between us she could no longer be my friend, while telling him she would not be comfortable with him hooking up with me specifically, but of course their relationship was just casual and of course he could hook up with other girls and of course she was a ‘cool girl’ who could handle it all.

There’s something always fascinating in the forbidden, isn’t there? That desire to touch which can not be touch, to feel which can not be felt. Your imagination builds it up so much in your head, making it into something that will be fantastical and wonderful.

More often than not, it’s mediocre, at best.

It’s part of why I’ve never understood abstinence only education programs, or programs like D.A.R.E., which, besides being proven more often than not that they don’t work, only make the thing seem more deliciously fascinating.

So one night, when I had friends over, hanging out, beer, pizza, good times, and he came up behind me, I did not say ‘No,’ I said, “We shouldn’t.” I dared him to continue.

And in my tipsy haze, in my sex starved body, he felt warm and smooth.

We didn’t get very far before we passed out. It was late, he was high, and I still had a voice in the back of my head saying, “This is a really bad idea.”

In the morning, he was young and clumsy. He was rough in the wrong places, trying to take control of a situation like he normally would, expecting me to swoon, and I refused. I refused to fake my enjoyment when all I wanted was him out of my room.

Guys, I have already stated that girls will fake orgasms. Sometimes, it’s just easier that way.
If we aren’t moving, if we are enjoying ourselves, you will know.
If we tell you “Keep doing that,” “Don’t stop,” “No, just there,” Or any variation thereof, why would you change what you are doing? Unless you are in a play situation of orgasm denial – why deny us when we are giving you clear cut instructions? If we’re going down on you and you say “Just like that,” “Yeah, faster,” or “Not that hard,” when we’re sucking on your balls, do you want us to go harder and/or bite the damn thing off? No.
(Yes I know that there’s a difference in the harm involved there, but the concept is the same.)

So by the third time I was asking for the incessant drilling of fingers in my pussy to be backed down to a tolerable level/the angle to be changed, when I’d been denied twice already, I gave up. I gave up on instructions. I gave up, and I got irritated.
Very irritated.

We both liked biting, and but I had stated that I did not want any marks on my body. He had no such qualms.
I started slow, nips here and there, finding the correct spots. And moans and groans led me further and further.
I understand that this was not the most mature way to handle the situation, but I was rather unhappy. Unhappy that this had built up so high, that I’d been hearing about the amazing, take control skills of this guy for months, how fantastic he was in bed, and how it had been ohso amazing. Unhappy that he’d been flirting so much with me, telling me things he wanted to do, and that none of it was even remotely close to living up to reality.

I was annoyed that this was the first time I’d let anyone sleep in my own bed, stay in my room, invade my personal space, and it was so profoundly disappointing.

So when his tongue started to lick at me like a hyperactive puppy I stared at my ceiling and held out for as long as I felt reasonable – before using his neck like a cat scratch post.

I can’t say that either of us were particularly satisfied that morning, until he came back because he forgot some of his stuff. My flatmate opened the door, I heard them muttering, and buried myself deeper into a blanket cocoon.

“Uh, what the hell happened last night?” If I’m remembering correctly, she didn’t even bother knocking.

“What did he say?”

“He said he felt like he was returning to the scene of the crime,” She tried to suppress a laugh, “Did you mean to maul him?”

Eh. Kinda.

“He didn’t seem to mind at the time,” I shrugged.

I will say, that we stayed friendly after that. We fell out of touch due to distance and just simply to not having that much in common. And I’ve since found better ways to channel my slightly sadistic frustrations.

TL;DR – Don’t eat the apple. There’s probably a worm in it.

On That Drunken Night

dfs

She’s just gone to pop into her room and you’ve stumbled into me, and your hands are in my hair, your lips on mine. My arms knot around your neck, and we sway from side to side.

“Christ,” She mutters, just loud enough for us to hear, “Can’t leave you guys alone for two seconds, can I?”

No, she can’t. Because we’re at this point in our lives where we can’t be trusted to be alone, with booze, and single.

We stumble into my room, and even though you’re drunk, you’re in control. It’s like a high, whenever we do this. You know exactly where to touch, where to kiss, where to be firm, where to be soft.

But I don’t want to fuck you. I don’t want to fuck you when you’re this drunk. It’s held me back before, and it’s holding me back now. I couldn’t put it into words. I could never talk to you, not about this. We never actually talked about anything remotely serious, nothing about ‘us,’ not that there ever really was an ‘us.’ There was just this, when you got drunk enough to find me at or after parties, and I let you every time.

But in the morning, you’re sober, and even though all I want to do is ask you to fuck me, I say nothing when you say you’ve got to get home. I say nothing when you stay for another two hours, talking about books, movies, the friends that have disappointed you. I’m sprawled on the bed in a tank that just barely covers me, hoping you’ll kiss me and from there…from there I could take you to where I want to.

But you don’t. You eventually realize the time. And it’s okay. The night was enough. It was fun. A part of me knows that it will probably be the last time it happens, we’re just in two different places now. So you give me a hug, and walk out the door.

Three years later, and we’re sitting with tea, and once again talking about all the books and movies. You read more than anyone I’ve ever met. It’s so nice, the way we flow into these conversations. It’s natural, and easy and light.

Which is why I don’t even try to bring up the questions that I’ve wanted to ask you for so very long.

You briefly mention your girlfriend, and I’ve seen her in pictures. She’s pretty, and you brighten when you mention her. I’m so happy for you.

You say goodbye, and give me another hug. We make the perfunctory statements of keeping in touch, but I know we won’t.

I wish we would, because you’re smart, and funny, and someone I want to be friends with.

The first night you took me back to your place, I was so young, and I was scared. I asked if it could be private. I still haven’t decided if I either shouldn’t have said that, or should have told you why. I had reasons, but they would’ve swayed you away even more. Who wants to get into that deep of shit when they first try to fuck someone?

I feel like it set the tone of everything after that. These are the things I’ve thought about since. I doubt you have.

I want you to be happy. I want you to successful, and to find whatever it is you’re looking for.

After you left, I ordered another pot of tea, and finished a book.

You really wouldn’t have liked it.

On Dirty Minds

fcfd687a63f90d020dac746ce732517d

My friend just sent me a message.

“Hey babe are you a fitted sheet?
Because you’re complicated and hard to manage but I definitely want you on this mattress.
And I don’t mind having to wrestle for it ;)”
-“Ahhh. Omg. I love it.”
“That last bit I made up especially for you!”

There’s an old stereotype that men think about sex every 7-8 seconds.
That would be 8,000 times a day.

Why do we continually think that men are more sexual beings than women? Because

  1. They’re not.
  2. They’re not.
  3. They’re really not.(But, 50 Shades is some bad shit, David)

I’m so grateful to shows like Grace and Frankie which have unapologetically put women’s sexual desires front and center – saying to the world yeah, our libido doesn’t die. We may have to make adjustments based on health and age, but, yeah, this is real and we can be open and honest about it.

My friend and I – same one from above – are both cis women, who, while we fail spectacularly in the ‘getting a guy to actually go home with us’ department, do pretty well in coming up with creative lines that might get them there (I use ‘might’ loosely.) To the point that we recently spent an afternoon coming up with (mostly nerd inspired) pick up lines.

Gems included.

“Daredevil’s not the only one who can perform well with a blindfold on.”

“…Yeah I don’t know if I can handle that Iron Fist.”

“Can I introduce you to Jessica Jones? She’s smart, sassy, super strong, and can really take a pounding.”

(In context of conversation of turn ons….)
“Seriously, can you turn off this faucet?”
“Washington’s not the only swamp that needs draining.”
“I thought you’d be running like a well oiled machine by now.”

My point, beyond revealing just how much we are not going to get laid in the near future, is to say that girls talk about sex all the damn time.
This has nothing to do with pleasing cis, hetero guys, making you want to like us, that you and you alone are making us explode with never before seen cock greed, or that we’re these weird hybrid alien creatures of hormone induced lust.

We are human beings and therefore capable of desire.

Cool? Cool.

 

 

On Bottoming

Why dinosaurs became extinct: 'Okay, I'm on top...now what?'

He was a rebound. He did not know this.

He was cute, one of the few cute guys in our friend group. He did know this.

He was hooking up with somewhere between 2-5 other girls when we were seeing each other (non-exclusively). I don’t know if he knew that I knew this.

He was tall, shaggy hair, and had a more dominant demeanor. He had such a thick accent, which helped.

This didn’t really translate to the sex.

See the problem was that neither of us liked to be on top.

There was one night, after we saw a show, he came up behind me, his arm pinned to my chest, he started to kiss down my neck, pulling my hair to the side.
“That gave me some ideas,” He whispered, and it sent shivers down my spine.

I asked him if he could do that again, the next time, or at least try that same demeanor, and…
Nothing.

God bless him, he would try. I tried, not as much, but would try. But we both just weren’t into it.

A few months in, and I knew he liked me, and I fully admit that I would’ve been more into it, had this not been a big problem.

And I fully admit I was a bit of an asshole about it.

His roommate had recently been broken up with, and he said she’d seen it coming, and so could he.
“The guy started cancelling plans, started drifting away,” It wasn’t a pointed comment, but I was in the beginning stages of doing the exact same thing.

He turned into a monogamist after that. With someone who stated that the sex with him was fan-fucking-tastic.

I understand people who are all about that virgin-til-married life. It’s a scary world out there. To each their own.

But seriously guys, you gotta figure out compatibility. Because that is some real shit that can make or break you.

On “Babe” and “Baby”

It’s in his first messages.
“Babe, you coming?”
“Babe, you on your way?”
“Baby, can you send me a picture?”

Egh.

I’ve told him what I want. He’s told me what he wants. They don’t really align, but it’ll work for tonight. He’s cute, or at least, his pictures are. He has a graduate degree. He has his own store, a little facial hair, and strong arms.
He wants me to meet him near his. For a myriad of reasons, my place is off limits.
He meets me in his car, and God, it’s a gorgeous car.

He takes me for a ride, and I see him smoking, I think it’s vape, but he is not happy when I mention it.
“Oh, you saw that?”
Uh, yes mate, I saw you smoking the thing right in front of me? I do not have vape-specific-blindness.
It is then over the course of this car ride I discover that
1. He has no college/uni degrees of any kind – which is fine, but, why lie about it?
2. I would have more mental stimulation talking to a stuffed animal.
When we pull up to the house, he tells me I need to be quiet, and leads me to the tiny room with the tiny single bed. Because.
3. He lives with his parents.
I get the millenial life. I do. But he was on the closer side of 30 and taking girls to a single bed. At this point, I also had no fucking way to get home, because we were near no transport links, & Gett had been ignoring my requests for a cab. So.
“What do you like?” He whispers in my ear.
Would it all be worth it if the guy could give me a fabulous orgasm? No, but it’d help. It’d help take the terrifying car ride where I had been positive he would crash it at least twice out of my head. It would take the situation out of my head.

There are five seconds most every guy has – five seconds where they find a magic spot, where fingers work wonders, and there’s so much potential…before they turn into hell’s jackhammer because MYDICKISWORKINGDIDNTYOUKNOW.

He doesn’t even bother taking my shirt off before he’s ripping the condom open. He’s got my legs around his waist, and his back is slick with sweat, and he keeps trying to kiss me full on, opened mouth, getting drool all over my mouth, and I’m twisting my face into his arm so he doesn’t see the look on my face.
“Yeah, baby, just like that.”
“Yeah, baby, bite me, just there.”
“Come on, baby, kiss me.”

When these nights of terrible happen, a switch flips to what I call ‘sex worker Emma,’ that just gives up entirely on gaining any semblance of pleasure out of the situation, and focuses entirely on making the guy come as quickly as possible so that I can get the fuck outta dodge.
Yes, this does include faking orgasms. Sorry not sorry guys, most of us do it.
“Come for me baby,”
He’s groaning and sighing, and I’m scratching my nails down his back, biting into his shoulder, squeezing around him.

And he’s finally done. He smiles down at me like he’s just conquered a fearsome beast. I immediately get up and grab my skirt. He grabs a baby wipe and starts to wipe off his dick.
“Where’s the bathroom?”
“What?” He looks confused.
“I need to use the bathroom.”
“Oh, uh, yeah, just gotta make sure the coast is clear.”
Oh sure. Because the parents can’t know you brought back a wanton lady in the middle of the night for this bed rocking lovemaking. My mistake.
He’s still methodically cleaning his dick.
“Mate, I’ve got to go to the bathroom.”
“Why?”
Is that seriously a question? Because, besides, you know, bodily functions,
“Prevents UTIs. Gotta go right after sex.”
“Oh, like, clean it all up? I didn’t know that,”
I glance once to the baby wipe surrounding his flaccid penis.
“Yeah. It’s a treasure trove of bacteria.”
“Huh,” He genuinely looks like this is new information, like I’ve just explained something interesting and he’s discovered something new, as he throws the baby wipe away.

He finally shows me where it is, and I’m grateful that my makeup is still intact, and with a quick finger fix my hair is back to normal. I show absolutely no signs of the 10 minute disaster than just occurred.

He’s back in the kitchen, and offers me a drink. I fill up my water bottle, he grabs a beer. And proceeds to drink it as he drives me back.

“Tell me something fascinating,” He demands.
“What do you define as fascinating?”
“I don’t know, you’re smarter than the girls around here, they didn’t go to uni, they only cared about sex, tell me something I don’t know,” He flashes a smile at me.

Gag me. Besides insulting girls you have probably had sex with, you didn’t go to uni either, so cut that shit out.
I talk to him about something political, and he tosses the bottle out the window.
“Hope that didn’t bother you,” He says, half apologetic.
It did. I say nothing.

He gets lost half a mile from my place, and I get out of the car.

When I get home, I scrub myself raw, trying to get all traces of him away from me.

In the morning, he texts me again.

“Did you like my dick inside you baby?”

Baby
Baby
Babe
Baby.

I’m not your fucking baby.