Five Days, Five Lovers, and One Bad Decision
Yesterday I slept with my ex-wife. I know it wasn’t the brightest idea of my life, but I had to do something after what happened the night before, when I cornered her against the wall of some filthy entryway, yanked her pants down, and promised her, between licks, that as soon as I had a decent bed and a condom handy I was going to fuck her until her legs shook.
It wasn’t the fuck of the century. Among other things because the aftereffects of the previous night’s drunkenness were still taking their toll, and my body was responding with all the grace of an old washing machine. But it was good enough for her to come in spasms and muffled cries.
The problem is the look she has on her face now. That maybe I’ve got luck on my side and we should try again look that gives me a panic I can hardly exaggerate. All I can do is trust she remembers what a lousy husband I was back then, and what a bastard I still am today, and that it puts her off. But knowing women in general, and this one in particular, my hopes that she’ll reason logically are pretty slim.
And the bad thing is that when a woman starts looking at you like that, there’s no elegant way out. She sees you picking up your T-shirt from the floor and her eyes start gleaming with Sunday plans, lunches with her mother, with that “we could give it another chance” line that sounds so lovely and always ends the same way. I know that movie. I starred in it for years and left it unfinished, and I have no desire at all to shoot the sequel.
It’s a problem, I suppose. The bad thing is it’s not the only one.
***
On Tuesday afternoon I met up with two strangers through one of those apps you can already imagine. I showed up at their place wearing fishnet stockings, a leopard-print corset, and the cheekiest thong I own, all hidden under my tracksuit and hoodie like a badly wrapped gift. The faces they made when I took off my street clothes made it worth it.
That got them excited enough to offer me, in addition to their stiff cocks, their mouths and eager hands, a certain variety of stimulant substances I don’t usually take. The thing is, when they’re served to me properly —sprinkled over a good dick or smeared on hungry lips— I can’t say no to them. I was never good at saying no to much of anything.
I had a very good time, I’m not going to deny it. I won’t give many details of what we did, and not out of modesty, since I have so little left that I save it for emergencies, but because between the thrill of the moment, the darkness of the room, the warmth of the whiskey, and the rest of the cocktail, I can’t say for certain what happened, or how, or whether condoms were involved.
I do remember, though, scattered fragments. A big hand pressing the back of my neck into the mattress. A low laugh on the other side of the bed. The metallic taste of something on my tongue and the sensation that the ceiling was breathing. Memories come like that, in pieces, like broken photos of a night I’d rather not put back together completely.
The only reliable fact is that, on the way home, I noticed something thick and warm sliding down the inside of my thigh. That’s not exactly the kind of souvenir that reassures a sensible person. And by now I don’t even pretend to be one.
***
Maybe I shouldn’t have gone to that date, if I think about it. Because on Monday I had spent an afternoon of passion with a man. Married, yes, but charming, kind, affectionate, and blessed with a tool that carried out its duties with tireless efficiency.
In the heat of the moment, with his hands kneading my chest, his cock buried to the hilt, and his eyes shining in a way that seemed to me, if not like love, then at least a more than acceptable substitute, I promised I wouldn’t arrange to meet anyone else but him. I swore that way he could drink my milk whenever he felt like it, without having to worry about catching one of those microscopic bugs that travel from mouth to mouth, and even more from cock to ass.
Because this big bastard, to his credit, adds to his countless virtues a very welcome hobby: bringing me to the peak by sheer licking and leaving me spotless, if you’ll excuse the redundancy, down to the last drop. They can die of envy.
And now I have no idea how I’m supposed to explain to him that it’s possible —only possible— that I was fucking bareback with two strangers while a potentially lethal mix of substances slightly scrambled my common sense. Assuming I’ve got any common sense left to scramble.
***
With that anxiety lodged in my body, I woke up on Wednesday. And driven by nerves, and by that reckless —if not outright suicidal— idea that when all is lost, you might as well jump in, I plunged once more into the hidden corners of bandit love to see what I could find.
I ended up, I’m not quite sure how, in the bed of a drag performer with a pale face, made up like a kabuki dancer. He subjected me to the harsh rigors —and yes, the double meaning is intended— of an absurdly monstrous thick cock, leaving my asshole in tatters and my throat raw.
He had a hell of a good time, I must add in the name of truth and to the detriment of my honor, pinching my nipples sadistically, stepping on my balls, and dousing me with a florid catalogue of insults while he came in my face. The worst part is that at the time I loved it.
When he was done, he poured me a glass of water and asked if I was okay with such misplaced tenderness that I nearly laughed. That’s how it is: the same mouth that spits “pig” at you while it’s riding you later offers you a cushion for your back. I got dressed in silence, body battered and carrying that strange satisfaction of someone who has survived something, and went down the stairs clutching the banister.
It’s not shame that’s tormenting me now, because I’m pretty well seasoned in that department. It’s the fact that I’ve been shitting blood for several days in a pattern that’s starting to look like a routine. And that, even for someone as unprudish as me, is hard to ignore.
***
And all this without stopping myself from being wanted, though for now only by text, by a coworker with dreamy eyes, a generous chest, and an endless ass. Apparently she’s open to love, even if it has to be kept secret, because her husband doesn’t meet her needs, neither emotional nor sexual.
I’m not too surprised. I’d swear that to satisfy a woman like that completely you’d need two fit men, a draft horse, and a jackhammer at minimum. Her husband, poor bastard, starts at a disadvantage.
All that’s missing is for the good man to find one of our chats full of subtle poetry one day. “You’re so hot I’d eat you whole through New Year’s,” “I’m dying to have you fuck me and find out what a real man is,” and other literary gems of the same caliber. And for him to turn out, to my misfortune, to be less open-minded than I am. And, worse, more skilled with his fists than with anything else.
And the funny thing is I really do want her. More than any of the others, if I’m honest. There’s something in the way she writes, in that mix of audacity and fear, that’s got me hooked like a kid. Every time the phone vibrates my heart flips over, and then I hate myself a little for still behaving as if I were eighteen and had all the time in the world ahead of me.
It would be sad, really, to end up getting beaten up by some jealous guy over a lay I never even got around to giving his wife. There are more dignified endings for a career like mine.
Though, looking at it in perspective, I’m not exactly in a position to demand a dignified ending either. Five days, five beds, and a body that’s starting to bill me for all of them at once. Maybe the jealous bastard with the fists would just be the last in a long list of things that have piled up on me this week without my wanting to face them head-on.
***
A dry, authoritative voice pulls me out of my thoughts.
—Right. And exactly what did you say you took?
—Let’s see… —I begin, counting on my fingers—. Three beers. No, four. A shot of orujo. A hamburger. And a whore’s cunt.
The guy looks at me with a face that’s very much not amused. I wasn’t joking about the list, but I note, once again, that cops are completely lacking in a sense of humor. They also don’t seem to appreciate the effort involved in summarizing an entire week in five lines.
This doesn’t look good. Not good at all.
What a bloody week I’ve had. And we’re still only on Friday.