Photo by Roberto Nickson

“My boyfriend is too sweet,” she said, opening a bottle of wine on the dark porch. Everyone else was sleeping, but in the heat of the night I found myself sitting on the couch wide awake and unhappy. I smiled and nodded when she handed me a glass too, but there wasn’t much to say. She was right. He was too sweet. Aggressively nice I used to say when I’d had too many drinks. Ferociously moral and smugly sanctimonious also came to mind. In short, he was a dick who got by on pretending to care too much.

“My girlfriend is too tired,” I said, taking a sip of the wine as she squeezed in next to me on the couch. “Actually that’s not fair. She’s just boring. Fuck, I’m a horrible person.”

“She’s not boring. She just doesn’t like you all that much.”

I stared out into the dark night, the sweat still clinging to my skin in just the wrong places. I nodded again, more to myself than anyone else, and closed my eyes for a moment. It was a conclusion I had considered but tried to avoid.

“I used to think I could change,” I said, feeling her bare leg touch mine and having no desire to move. “I used to think if I did this or that it would work out. If I stopped being such an asshole maybe it would be better.”

“You’re not an asshole,” she said. “At least not to anyone but yourself.”

“Is he asleep?” I asked, hoping to move back to her. Hoping to move back to her skin against mine and her hair so close to my face.

“Of course. He’s going running in the morning after some yoga. The sunrise is God’s gift to the blessed, he says.”

“Jesus Christ,” I said, choking on my wine. How could someone make it so easy to dislike them?

“Right? I mean what’s wrong with having a few more drinks, choking me during angry sex, and then passing out with come in my hair. Okay, maybe not my hair, but you get the point. We’re not on the same page.”

“Or the same planet,” I said turning towards her and brushing her hair back behind one ear. “I’m glad there’s no come on you too though.”

“Are you sure about that?” she asked, putting her glass of wine down. I leaned in closer and considered not thinking for the rest of the night. Guilt was for the weak and doubt for the weary. I was neither.

“If we were dating there would be come everywhere,” I said. “Sweat and tears too. And we would definitely not be asleep at midnight on a Friday night in the country.

“And what would we be doing?” she asked, leaning back and smiling at me. She flicked one strap off her shoulder, letting her tank top expose more skin than I had seen in weeks. I leaned forward, even more, reaching out with one hand until it closed gently around her throat.

“I think we’d start here,” I whispered. “We’d start by finding out how hard you like it and just how you want to be fucked.”

“And how hard do you want to fuck me?” she asked, pushing back against my hand as if challenging me to squeeze tighter. “Are you just a nice boy too? Or would you actually use me if I asked nicely.”

I nearly knocked both glasses of wine over when I swung her onto my lap in one strong motion. She giggled as she straddled me, my hand now in her hair as our lips brushed without really connecting. I kissed her cheek and her chin as she ground her hips against me, my cock obviously hard between her legs. She scratched my bare shoulders and clenched her thighs around my own. I nibbled her neck and she growled.

“I would fuck you until you begged me to stop and then I’d fuck you some more.”

“Would you choke me until saw stars?” she asked. “Would you slap me until my head spun? Would you fuck me even as I begged you to let me go?”

“Yes,” I moaned, kissing her neck as I pulled her down harder, pushing myself up against her, feeling her through her thin shirt. Her hand in my hair pulled painfully until my neck was bent backward and my throat exposed. She traced a nail along my veins and up to my lips. She kissed my chin before resting her mouth against mine, just a sliver of air between us. I could feel the blood pumping through her body and my cock twitched against her. Her forehead pressed into mine and I held her there, seconds from a kiss for what felt like forever.

“Fuck!” she groaned as she stood up and grabbed her glass of wine. She stared at me, and for a moment I wondered if she would change her mind. If she would come back to the couch and stop trying.

“Well, at least we know,” I said, picking up my own glass. She paced twice more before sitting back down next to me.

“Would you have fucked me?” she asked, one eyebrow raised. “I mean just now. Would you have done it?”

“In a second,” I said, knowing it was true. Something had changed and it had little to do with us. She leaned against my shoulder and gently rubbed my thigh, her fingers instantly friendly.

“Thank you,” she whispered.