We were there on my bed, bodies turned towards each other but the tension in the air driving us apart at the brink like two positively charged magnets. I laid contorted, my hips sideways, my back flat against the mattress. He propped himself up with his elbow, his shoulder resting against my abdomen, his hand stroking my hip absentmindedly as he stared at the wall and I at the ceiling.
We were silent, but my head was ringing with things that I wanted and didn’t want. Part of me wanting to lift myself up and leave the room, another part of me wanting to purge everything that was on my mind although I’d already purged so many times that there was nothing new to expel. Another part of me wanted to pull him on top of me and do the best and worst things imaginable.
We laid there like that, remnants of our previous closeness scattered throughout our body language, amongst the disdain and distrust. I looked at the side of his face, the back of his head. He was letting his hair grow longer. I didn’t like it. He looked like a douche bag, like a 37 year old man attempting to regain some of his youth and fervor, like the same person I’d known all my adult life, but in a different wrapping that was opaque, like wax paper. It didn’t fool me.
I rolled my eyes and wondered if it was for her, if she liked it. I thought about how Joey was so eager to appease me, how he let me wax his back and wore his pants low enough for me to catch glimpses of his obliques when he lifted his arms, even though he didn’t like it. I figured the same was true for them.
I finally sat up and he did as well, the hand that had been running over my side now stroking the small of my back. I smiled at him and he smiled back, awkwardly. He stared into my eyes and his eyes darted over my face, studying me like he had either forgotten what I looked like or never wanted to. He touched my cheek gently, ran the tops of his fingernails down to my collarbone and my skin tingled. I thought to myself how he’d never felt me so gingerly before. How he’d never taken the opportunity to just sit there and appreciate how pretty I was. How it was much too late now.
I stood and adjusted my shirt over my belt. He stood and came close to me. He grabbed my wrists, lifting my arms to rest them on his shoulders and held my waist. He kissed my cheek and I pulled away. I told him that I couldn’t. He kept kissing me. He pushed his pelvis forward, and I felt the bulge in his khaki shorts pressing against my pelvic bone. My stomach lurched and I pulled away, managing to separate myself a few inches from him before he pulled me back roughly into him lifting one hand to my chin and attempting to hold my face still so he could kiss my mouth. I repeated, over and over, that I couldn’t. I managed to wrestle away from him and walked away, my desires and wishes and wants and needs and thoughts and everything else a jumbled mess. I reached the door and before I opened it I turned around.
He stood and looked at me, giving an exasperated sigh. His expression was a mixture of frustration and amusement. He wasn’t going to stop. I opened the door and began to walk out. He lunged forward and pushed me up against the door frame. His pelvis moved rhythmically, against and away from me. His hands ran over my shoulders and breasts and when they lingered I moved them to his sides. He begged me to let him inside of me. He told me he’d forgotten how it felt and I reminded him that it was just your average vagina and it felt the same as every other one. He protested, proclaiming the especial factor of mine, and I laughed at his attempts to flatter me to get in my pants, like he was some random guy I’d drunkenly made out with in the club one night and was attempting to get me to fuck him in the back alley by telling me how hot I looked on the dance floor with my friends.
No, again – I repeated it. I made an attempt to sound stern, but it failed under the strain of my own arousal, my desire to give in to temptation. His mouth went searching for my neck and found it as I lifted my chin out of habit, to give him better access. A split second later I realized what he was doing, what I’d invited him to do and I violently pushed him away. I shook my head, telling him that I already had a lovebite and he told me he’d noticed. I told him that it was from the man that I actually belonged to. The man that I would not hurt. The man that I loved.
He stepped back and looked at me quizzically. I asked him, if I were still his wife, would he want me to do this to him. He said no. He adjusted his pants and chuckled. He ran his hands through his newly long brown hair and clasped them together on the top of his head. I playfully nudged him in the belly with my elbow and he chuckled again. I apologized and he told me it was fine, not to be sorry.
He left a little while later. He went home to her. I didn’t mind, and I was glad for it. I hoped that he took his sexual frustration out on her, where he should.
Today would have been our six year anniversary. I’m glad it isn’t.
I’ve moved on, almost entirely.
—————-
Listening to: Radiohead – Karma Police
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