Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All names and events are fictitious.
I saw him at the bar. The same bar I had met him two nights ago. He was drinking with his friends — oh, his “bros”. Four of them in total there, all hunky frat boy type, the type whose vocab you will soon realize resolves around a very limited range of functional, primitive words like “chill”, “cool”, “sex”, “fuck”, the type that cares more about his dick and where on you he can shoot his sperm than, well, you, and rest assured he won’t clean it up — you do.
It looked like they didn’t see me at all as that guy was proudly, shamelessly bragging to the group about his hook-up tales from college girls to the office milfs which somewhere in the middle gloriously included, guess what… me.
That’s right. Me. We fucked. No. I fucked him. I started it. But before we go any further, let me get this straight. This is not a story about boy meets girl, boy fucks girl, girl gets attached, girl goes crazy. This is about something else. Something more, let’s just say, interesting.
“Yeaaa she was hot,” I could hear him talking and other dudes cheering on, “but I don’t know man, things got a bit… weird, like she kept asking…”
He turned down his voice by the end of the sentence as if he worried what he was about to say might sound completely out of place.
“Well, she asked: Who was the last girl you fucked?“
Bingo. Yup. Definitely me. I asked him that question, one chilly night, at 2 am, in his filthy rented bedroom, while looking dead into his eyes, penetrating his rotten soul, with a blank face. I was on top of him, him hard inside of me. I guess I caught him off guard as his ugly sex face quickly changed into a quite funny perplexed expression.
Have I told you? I had a way to ask questions and send chills down people’s spines like I knew things. Like I knew what he had been up to, who he had fucked, what nasty things he had done to those women and how in details he should then be punished. So I wasn’t surprised he got suspiciously jumpy.
“Ehh, why are you asking me that?”
I bent down, my face moving closer to his. My long brown hair fell down on his chest, burying part of his face while I played with his ear, licking and whispering like giving a seductive order, “Hmmmm. Tell me now.”
I could tell he was incredibly turned on. His hands aggressively grabbed onto my hips, guiding my ride as he was losing his control.
I bet he thought I was being kinky and wanted to spice things up. Idiot. I asked because I needed to know. I seriously needed to know how he had fucked that girl.
“Tell me about her. Tell me how you fucked her.”
I insisted more strongly. I didn’t know which part of me looked like I was not serious except that, well, I was moaning louder with each word uttered and wouldn’t stop riding him.
Thing is, do you know when you fuck someone, you also fuck all the people they have fucked before you? Well, not literally, not directly of course. But yeah. All their pieces are there. Along the neck that you wet with your slow kisses. In the mouth that you swirl with your restless tongue. On the fingers that run along your inner thighs and find way in and out of your body — faster and faster each time.
See, someone has been there before, kissing that neck, biting that mouth, sucking those fingers and going in and out of that body, and now you’re feeling all of them. You’re fucking all of them, exchanging your body fluids, your DNA with them. Random people. People you have never met. People you have repeatedly passed by on the busy street but never noticed. Maybe even people you have fucked before too. And sometimes it’s the people you couldn’t get access to otherwise.
That’s why I needed to know how he had fucked that girl.
Of course, though, he didn’t tell me one word. Just like my whore ex who never told me about all the girls he had fucked while fucking me.
So I had no choice but to imagine that girl. Actually, I could totally imagine that girl. The last girl who was here. Very vividly. A beautiful girl with a pair of sparkling hazel eyes. A bit taller and slimmer than me. Longer hair, fuller lips. So much more feminine and sensual. So much more relaxed and present. So much more wanted… Well, she was everything I was not. She seemed like someone my whore ex, or any man really, couldn’t wait to fuck.
It was like I was fucking her too. And strange as it might sound, I liked that thought.
As I closed my eyes, I could feel her presence. I could feel her touch when he touched me, her animal desire surging when he went down on me. I could hear her moaning, screaming, grabbing his hair out of utmost pleasure as he sped up the motion of his tongue between my legs.
She wasn’t here but I could swear she was really here. With me. In me. In him. I tasted her lips through his lips I kissed; I smelled her scent lingering on his pillow — she must have rested her head on the exact same spot I rested my head on when he thrust deep and hard inside of me.
Just like that, as I explored this inexplicable bodily connection, I couldn’t help but think about all the women I had indirectly made love with through my ex and I wondered if they knew about me, that when they fucked him, they were fucking me too and it wasn’t sweet love.
The sex was always rough and it hurt. Hurt deep. Then it hurt later even when the most gentle man made the most gentle love to me.
I just wanted someone to be mine and mine only. But life is a bitch.
Oh, no. Not this time though. Not this girl though. She wasn’t a bitch. She didn’t hurt me. I kept her in my head and she sent me to orgasm — before he could and before he even had his own.
I rolled out of his bed as soon as we both finished. I got dressed and charmingly said thanks to the guy who was still confused about why I didn’t cling onto him even one bit after sex like most girls would. Well, I got what I was looking for so what else for me to do there other than getting the fuck out?
And so at that bar, two nights later, he told his frat friends about how it was one of the best sex he had ever had and how cool that chick, I, was. I smirked cockily. Yeah, that was about right.
Though soon enough, that cockiness was wiped off my face by a tap on my shoulder.
“Heyy, sorry for keeping you waiting! Traffic took ages! You okay?”
It was my new friend, Emma. She sat down next to me while quickly tying her hair up into a pony tail. She always seemed in motion, full of energy, the kind of beauty that needed no approval yet called for attention. At least my attention now. Feminine and sensual… A magnetic girl.
“Oh, is it?”, I couldn’t help but flash a big smile across my face as I saw her, “Yeah I actually just got here. Don’t worry–“
“Omg!” She shrieked, all of a sudden, covering her mouth in shock, “Is that him??”
“Who?”, I was slightly startled.
“That guy I told you about! The guy I hooked up with last week!”
I followed the direction of her wide eyes to the table with the four hunky guys.
“He never contacted me though…”, she sounded disappointed.
“Oh, yeah, I told you, forget about him, they’re just dickheads”, I comforted her, “Look at you! You could do so much better. And I mean it!”
She looked sad for a minute then her face brightened up at my words like they really had weight on her, “Really? Thank you! You’re always there for me!”
She came in for a tight hug while I patted her back reassuringly and said, “It’s okay, let’s go to another bar.” Before she pulled away, however, I had secretly noticed how nice her hair smelled and how soft her cheek felt against mine.
Across the room that “dickhead” spotted me. Then as soon as Emma turned around and he caught her face too, he couldn’t close his mouth. Yes, I was aware of it. Yes, I very much enjoyed it. I casually put my arm around her waist, accompanying her out of the bar while making eye contact with him, pulling another cocky smirk on my face as though I was mocking him with that question, hey who was the last girl you fucked?