I don’t want to get back together with my Ex. I DON’T want to get back together with my Ex. But there was this moment recently.
About a week ago, I had an early morning gig. The Sun wasn’t even up before I had to start work. And, me being me, I arrived early. My Ex was there already, too. He drove the truck with the equipment.
I saw him in the truck, walked over, and asked if I could hop in. It was cold and I wanted shelter from the chill. He didn’t mind my presence.
Since it was so early, and I was still sleepy, I lounged back and closed my eyes. I started blabbering, as I sometimes do when I’m fatigued.
“Ssh, you’re suppose to be sleeping,” he said. I quieted myself.
I could feel his arm as he outstretched it on the back of the seat. His arm wasn’t behind me at all, just elongated out.
Then, for some reason, my mind flashed on a series of images. His hand on my chin, turning my face. His lips to mine, kissing me. My crawling into his lap. More kissing.
Someone pounded on my Ex’s window. We both jostled awake. It was the lead for the gig. Random thoughts ended.
I don’t want to get back with my Ex, yet that fantasy still emerged during my tired state.
The last time my Ex and I had sex was in the early afternoon on a weekday. He had borrowed my car for work. His job has roughly regular hours and that particular day I didn’t have a gig.
I had taken a shower and then proceeded to lounge across the bed still in my robe. He came into the apartment and into the bedroom. I wasn’t expecting him. It was maybe 2pm.
He knelt down, opened up my robe, and began to eat me out. This was kind of a big deal. During our entire relationship I was never comfortable giving him head, so I often didn’t want it in return. In my brain, it didn’t seem fair. But I’d already broken up with him, so I no longer gave a shit.
As I writhed with his face between my legs, I no longer held back. All pretense of him being my dominant, of him being in charge, was gone.
“Take off your pants,” I said.
“What?” He hadn’t quite heard me, being occupied and all.
“Take off your pants so you can fuck me.”
He immediately dropped trou.
As he fucked me, I didn’t care. I didn’t care about his pleasure, didn’t care about what he wanted.
At a certain point, I had a vibrator against my clit while he fucked me bent over the bed. I remember cuming and not screaming. I wanted the orgasm just for me. I didn’t want him to know I’d cum, didn’t want him to feel pride or any joy at my sexual pleasure.
Our last fuck was a hate fuck, at least on my part.
Occasionally I felt bad for the way I acted towards him in the end. He became highly emotional, more emotional than in the entirety of our relationship. I didn’t respond to his sad stares, his pouty behavior, his occasional temper tantrum.
No, I did not want to cuddle in the early morning. No, I did not want to be around him or his mother while in our apartment.
He called me cold. I wasn’t cold. I just didn’t care.
When I remember why I broke up with him, and why I don’t want to get back together with him, I no longer feel guilty about being something other than the girl who forgave him for so much.
In the end, I ended our relationship because I needed someone other than him. And that still holds true today, random fantasy or not.
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