Sex, Lies, and Contempt

“Hi.”

“Hi, back,” I smiled that special imagine-these-lips-elsewhere smile at the pert little brunette next to me at the bar.

“What are you ordering?”

“Whatever you desire.”  I laid it on thick, sensing she had little or no sense of danger.  Oh Grandma, what big teeth you have! Why thank you, dear; the better to eat you with.

She giggled.  My regard slid from her face to the range of bottles across from us and back to her.  Slowly, I took her in, making sure she noted every flicker in my eyes.   I let them rove exactly where she wanted them to.

“What’s your name?” I asked her.

“Cheri,” she told me, smiling into my eyes.  What a coincidence, I thought.

“Debra,” I lied, leaning closer.

I admit it, I don’t have sane, healthy sex sometimes.  Sometimes, I lie.  I want to be with people who don’t know me, who will never know me, who believe I am the woman I pretend to be.  I’ve modes.  I’m often told by others how they wish they could be me.   If you can take rejection well, if you can resign yourself to the myriad of undesirables, if you’re willing to troll bar after bar after bar for that one “yes, ma’am” you can be just like me.  I’m not picky.  When I want to get laid, I just need a “yes”, or perhaps, a “maybe”.

We ended up against the fender of my car.  My hand had already snaked its way into her jeans.  She was panting against my shoulder.

“Now?” she asked.  “What now?”

“Here,” I told her.  “Now.”

“You hate me,” she moaned against my shoulder.  “Why?”

Hardly surprised, I murmured nothings against her soft curls, my fingers urging her closer to an orgasm.  I slipped them inside of her, my thumb pressed against her clit.

“Why?” she asked again.

“Because you’re right,” my voice pitched to soothe, to tease, to urge her on.  “Because I’m always wrong.”

I could feel her cunt clenching around my fingers.  “Yesssss” she hissed against my breast, her breath hot and wet through my t-shirt. 

“You deserve it,” I told her.  “And you  know you do.”  I could feel her gasp translating into spasms.  Her clit throbbed against my thumb.

“I’m not here,” I whispered, opening myself as I so rarely do.  “And you—you are.   I’m just the illusion, the dark dream you can’t forget.”

She came, bucking against me.  I crammed my shoulder against her breast bone, pressing her back, forcing her body to arch against me.  Her body shuddered once, twice, her cunt clenching and settling around my fingers. 

I slid out, pulled away.  “Go,” I told her.

“What?”

“Thank you.  Go now,” I panted with desire; the lust to run, the need to be off and away again.  I slid into my car, watching the small rectangle of her midriff still heaving in my side-view mirror.

“Go,” I whispered to myself.  “Oh, go.”

I went.  Satisfied, but not yet sated. I wondered if I ever would be, or if this was all that I could ever have.  I drove home.  I crumpled, unable to open the door.  

 It’s enough. Enough, I assured myself. 

I believe.  Sometimes.

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