I think about it sometimes.
Once, while rubbing the moist tip of my cock across her stomach, she moaned the name of an ex-boyfriend. It struck me kind of off-guard, and the only thing I could do was break free of her hand and stick it in for a sudden fuck.
Behind the sounds of our breathing and my thighs slapping against her ass was the dim awareness that the act had turned into a sort of vengeance, and it felt better this way. All of my own second-guessings were gone, no worries about what she would think about my proficiency as a lover. I was ploughing the field, rowing the boat, boring the leather. With each stroke I pushed a little harder until she had to pick her head up to avoid knocking against the beadpost each time. I didn't care, I barely even noticed.
Finally, the moment seized itself: my consciousness dwindled to a point, time paused for a deep breath, and I became a deep, convulsive throbbing. Another moment, and I was lying face up on the bed, wiping sweat off my face. The next thing that coalesced in my mind was the knowledge that she was speaking.
At this point, I sometimes like to imagine things a little differently. I like to pretend that she said "do it again."
"Get out," she said, really. We argued for a very short time, and before my uncanny ability to negotiate had a chance to kick in, I was tying my shoelaces in the front room.
I went to the door and wondered if I should break something, because I felt like it. Instead, I just left. I didn't even slam the door. Like an idiot, I expended my violence on my own apartment full of stuff.
For a long time, I thought it was my fault that we never talked again, but the older I get, the more I realize that she was just so embarrassed at having said his name that time that she couldn't face me any more. I wonder if she ever thinks about it.
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