I was sitting at a riverfront bar with J. having sangria and making out…having a really great time. We were listening to music, chatting and enjoying the sultry evening. Thenl Terminator came into my consciousness with the force of a Mack truck.
I miss him, I want him, I wanted to have this moment I was having with J. — with him. And I hated him(Terminator) for it. My eyes welled up because I thought, I hate him for being so elusive, and damaged and impossible. I hate him for being so under my skin that after weeks without seeing him (months actually), he can still have this kind of impact on me and undermine a perfectly nice moment. I bit back the tears…
About half an hour later, J. got up to use the bathroom and while he was gone I idly checked my phone. I found an email from Terminator saying that he couldn’t forget me and the memories were killing him. Could we meet tomorrow morning (!!!), which was July 4. I was thrilled, but there was no way I could see him. I would be with my son most of the day and in the evening would be dropping him off at his Father’s. And J. had already asked (repeatedly) whether I could spend it with him. We were on our third date and looking forward to sex fairly soon. The heat between us has been building in intensity, a combination of sweet and dirty that I can’t wait to explore… When J comes back from the restroom, he unexpectedly bends over me and bites me on the neck. He does it playfully but I know it will leave some kind of faint mark, which is his unspoken intention, marking his territory. He sits next to me again and casually repeats his desire to see me the next day — July 4. He wants to have sex, but also, he suspects I have plans for the holiday that I haven’t told him about. I don’t. It’s hard to barbecue in Manhattan, and even if you have outdoor space, it’s usually so infernally hot that you don’t bother. I usually go to the beach and watch the fireworks on TV. J and I hang out until the wee hours — he took me home at around 3 a.m. — and we agree to talk at some point the next afternoon.
The room is lit only by the television, which neither of us are even aware of. We undress quickly, and spend a moment admiring each other. We both look hotter than the last time we were together.
He’s kissing me, juicy hot melting kisses first on my mouth, then my neck, then my breasts. He looks great – and between kisses, he keeps telling me how hot I look, how beautiful I am, how much he’s missed me. ..what? He wants to hold me and kiss me…wtf? I’m unexpectedly but very happily in my ex-husband’s bed. I am beyond due for a good romp, and this is the best of both worlds: new but familiar. It’s the first time we’ve been naked together in 8 years (and three months, he informs me later).
I thought we were just having a good time, but he begins to confess that he has been wanting me for years, that he made a terrible mistake and has been wanting to make it right, but never thought it could happen again between us. “Do you think we can do this again?” he says, meaning a relationship.
My brain is short-circuiting. I can’t handle this discussion, I don’t really believe him, I think maybe he’s trying to create a mood or something. Maybe he’s had too much wine, but when I tell him this, he says, “I had to drink to get the courage to tell you how I feel.” I’m still skeptical. Our relationship was the worst and unhappiest time of my life, and I’m not exaggerating. He didn’t want to be in it after he created it, and was unspeakably cruel about it. Of course the beginning was wonderful. Isn’t it always? Why would he want to go back to something he didn’t want in the first place?
What the hell is he talking about he missed me? When? He bounces from one relationship to another like a ping-pong ball. And what a time to bring this up.
His conversation is all over the place, but his body has one focus: my pussy. He dives face first into it like a drowning man grabbing a life preserver. He is both rough and tender, kissing, licking, biting (softly) until I’m grinding against him, aroused by his hunger, and his constant murmurs about how good I taste, how great I look, and his hands, which are all over me. But it’s too much, I can’t come, although I’m enjoying myself. We take a break to talk.
“How do you feel right now?” he asks me.
What the fuck is it with all these men wanting to know how I feel all of a sudden? Instead of my panties, every man I meet wants to get into my feelings. It’s — hilarious. Ironic. Annoying. I’m dying to say “Can you just shut up and fuck me?” but I can’t.
“Happy” I answer him. “I’m having a good time, but what is going on.?” A lot as it turns out. “I never thought I’d have you naked in my bed again,” he said. The fact that he wants to make amends, that he still has feelings, the thrill he’s feeling at us being together again…blah blah. I have a hard time believing any of it. I decided to blame it on the wine for the moment and if and when a discussion occurs when we’re both dressed and vertical, I’ll deal with it. At that moment, in that place, I focused on his very real lust and joy.
I never thought sex could be so wild and nasty without a penis involved…he couldn’t keep it up because he had been drinking before I got there (idiot). But oh, my God, he ravaged me just the same. Ravaged, worshipped, abused. The high point was I sat on his face, taking my pleasure, he slid a finger up my ass, and I rode his tongue and finger until I was having what felt like an orgasmic seizure. Damn. The touching: “like this?” “like that?” “Softer.” “Harder.” “Right there. Yes. yes. yes.” “Don’t stop.”