I had been away for three days and I hadn’t heard from Lo. She hadn’t heard from me either because before I left we hadn’t properly made up after our fight. On the fourth day of my five day trip I received a text from her around 6:00 pm. It simply said, “Dinner plans with Robert tonight.”
I
immediately called her. The stalemate of
silence be damned, I had to know the details.
Was this a date? What had
transpired to bring this about? Had she
been having “dinner plans” with Robert all week? There were so many questions swirling in my
mind unanswered. I had to know.
“Hello,”
she said coldly.
“Hello,” I
said imitating her tone.
“Did you
call for something?”
“I just,
um, thought I’d say hi.”
“Hi,” she
said flatly.
“What’s
this I hear about plans with Robert?” I got right to the point since it was
obvious why I was calling and I might as well drop the subterfuge.
“He and I
are going to dinner tonight,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Going out
or going to his place?”
“Out.” She wasn’t revealing many details and I could
tell she was secretly delighting in my curiosity. She was hoping it was a manifestation of
jealously.
“Like, to a
restaurant.”
“That’s
usually where couples go out for dinner.”
“Oh, so now
you’re a couple, are you?”
“I’m just saying,
in general. But there will only be the
two of us.”
“Sounds
romantic,” I said with some sarcasm.
“A gal of
my age, my looks, my intelligence deserves some romance.” Ouch!
Cutting.
“Well, have
a good time.”
“I intend
to.”
“OK,” I
said, hurt from her comment, “bye.”
She just
hung up.
In this
little game of cold shoulder, she was winning because she had a hot body
attached to that cold shoulder. Damnit!
There was
nothing I could do from hundreds of miles away but wait, for I knew that if something
sexual were to happen between them, she wouldn’t delay in telling me, if for no
other reason than to make me jealous.
Unfortunately for her, it wasn’t jealousy I was feeling, but longing,
curiosity, desire, and a prurient prick of stimulation by my groin. In other words, I wanted her. I wanted her to want him and for him to have
her and I wanted to be in on it. But I
was on the outs.
So I
waited. And waited. And waited.
It was past ten, then eleven, and finally midnight when finally I got a
text from her. It read, “Driving
home. You can call me if you want.”
Date Night
She knew
me. In the battle of
who-can-outlast-whom, she outwitted me.
She won. There was nothing to do
but concede defeat. I called
immediately.
“Hi,” I
said mawkishly.
“Oh, hi,”
she said, as if surprised by my call. A
total ruse.
“How was
your night?”
“It was
good.” She wasn’t going to reveal
details until I had shown sufficient interest and she had tortured me to teach
me who is boss.
“What did
you do?”
“We had
dinner.”
“And?” she
knew what I wanted to know.
“And then
went to his house.”
“And?”
“And we
talked.”
“And?” I
was getting very frustrated, but I also knew she was going to put me through my
paces.
“What would
you like to know, Daddio?” she asked.
The use of Daddio meant two things: 1) Something salacious happened; 2)
She felt vindicated enough to return to her proper role.
“You know,
dear.”
“No, I
don’t. That’s why I’m asking.”
“Well
then,” she said, “you’ll just have to fly back home right away and ask me in
person.
“You’re not
going to tell me?!”
“I’m
exhausted and I’m almost home. Have a
safe flight. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
So I was
wrong. She hadn’t felt vindicated
enough. She was going to turn the screw
a little tighter and let me lie awake and suffer my own self-inflicted
punishment. Cruel, cruel woman.
A
July vacation at a beach house for a week can be the perfect antidote to all of
your problems. Unless that vacation is a
family reunion and the beach house is for thirty people. And among those thirty people are married
dads in their forties and fifties who are in good shape. And your girlfriend is Lo. Then, you might have ninety-nine problems,
but Lo is the only one you have to really worry about.
That
was the case this week. Every seven
years or so my extended family decides that we should make a pilgrimage from
all the corners of the globe, rent one enormous house on the beach with enough
bedrooms and bathrooms to accommodate us all, and stay under one roof for seven
days straight. We have been doing this
for a few decades now, but we hadn’t had one of these since I started dating
Lola.
She
hadn’t met most of my family – only heard about them through various stories I
told her and, to be fair, with thirty of them, I doubt that she really could
tell one from the other without having met them in person. But this week, right in the middle of July,
we were all going to be up-close and personal with each other. Foolishly, I hadn’t thought of warning her
prior to our departure. This was my
family. Did I need to warn her? Apparently so.
You
see, if I do say so myself, I come from a very good looking family. My brothers and sisters and my cousins have
certain family features in common – features that drive Lo wild. I’d even venture to say that, of the lot of
us, I am probably the least physically attractive. My male relatives all have strong-cut jaws,
expressive eyes, and the classic broad shoulder tapering to a thin waist. They are very health conscious, for many of
them were athletes even through college.
My female relatives share many of the same good genes that have
preserved their looks into midlife. And
they are married to rather attractive spouses.
Throw
into this mix of middle-age men – all walking around topless, biking, kayaking,
swimming, cooking, and being dads to their respective kids – a twenty something
nymphomaniac with daddy issues wearing a skimpy bikini and you have just
brought all sorts of wrath down upon your head.
Such was my lot for a week.
It
began innocently enough. We were on the
beach with a few of my cousins. The sun
was blazing and the waves were rough and tumble. We had our boogie boards with us and, after a
beer, Lo said she wanted to ride the waves with me. We grabbed the boards and went into the
refreshing water, waded out past the crashing waves and waited for the right
moment. As we were out there, Lo turned
to me and said, “Daddio, I’m so wet!”
“We’re
in the ocean, Lo. Of course you’re wet,”
I replied.
“I
don’t mean like that,” she said with a devilish grin.
Before
I could respond, a wave came and soon she and I were soaring towards the shore
atop the white crest of the surf.
Conditions were just right for multiple sorties. She looked happy, like a little girl. I had never seen her see so happy. She was grinning from ear-to-ear. What I didn’t realize, since I was next to
her for most of the wet-n-wild rides, was that each and every time we caught a
wave and were carried in atop the undulating surge, Lo’s bikini top would be
pushed downward and, each and every time she stood up from the excursion, her
breasts were popping out, wet and glistening in the sun for all my cousins to
see.
I
only found out about this later, when, back in the house, she got naked in the
bathroom with me to take a shower. “Are
you mad, Daddy?” she asked.
“Why
would I be mad?” I said as I saw her perfectly tanned body before me.
“Because
of my ‘accidents’ at the beach.”
“What
accidents?” I asked, naively.
Then
she told me about her struggles with keeping her top on her tits.
We
got in the shower together and washed each other down with body-soap. It was one of those large shower/hot tubs
that had a comfortable seat to sit. I
told Lo to sit down below me and spread her legs. She did so, mistakenly thinking that I was
going to put my cock in her mouth. She
opened up to receive me, but, instead, I took aim and let lose, releasing the
golden stream formed from the many beers I had had on the beach. She relished in the warm stream I doused her
in, covering her tits and tum, puss and feet.
When I was good and done, she pulled my hand down and reversed positions
with me and, putting one foot up on the ledge, she took aim and allowed me to
get it just as good as I gave it.
Then
she got down on her knees on the floor of the shower and took my hard cock in
her mouth, fondling my balls with her right hand as her left rested on my
knee. Her long, wet, dark hair bobbed up
and down under the stream of the shower.
She wanted me to cum, that was clear.
She worked hard to earn my ejaculatory appreciation, but I denied her
the satisfaction of completion. Before
she got lockjaw, we got out of the shower and dried off.
She bent over the
bed, her ass beckoning me. It was my
turn to get on my knees and worship her tumescent pussy lips with my
tongue. She tasted sweet and I wanted
more. I buried the tip of my tongue as
deep as it would go in her cunt and then in her ass and back again and
again. She came multiple times, her cum
dripping down the sides of my mouth and saturating my beard as it streamed down
my neck onto my chest. I delighted in
making her so wet. Due to the cramped
living quarters, she had to bite her lower lip and swallow her orgasmic
screams. She buried her head in the
pillow to moan and groan.
At some point I
heard the sound of a radio playing from the pool area outside our window. AC/DC’s “You Shook Me All Night Long” was narrating
the scene.
She was a fast
machine,
She kept her motor
clean
They sang as I
licked the smooth mons pubis of Lo from behind.
She could take it no longer and she crawled forward on the bed like a
wounded soldier out of the heat of battle.
She rolled over, exhausted already, and spread her listless legs.
She was the best
damn woman that I’d ever seen.
I slid in her
pussy with my aching rod and, honestly, I couldn’t feel a thing. Just wet.
So wet. At the very instant of my
shaft lodging deep inside her, she came in waves – waves like those of the
ocean that we were riding just a little while earlier. After her quick climax, she was suddenly
filled with new energy. She rolled me
over onto my back and slid her wet slit down the length of my solid pole,
kneeling on top of me as she pulled and pinched her nipples. I grabber by her hips and rocked her forward
and back, slishing and sliding over my hips.
She had a certain
size,
Telling me no
lies,
Knocking me out
with those American thighs.
She came
again. Again, all I could feel was
wetness cascading down upon me.
She dropped her
head down to bite on my neck and then she slid off of my rod slowly as her
tongue slid down my chest, over my abs, eventually resting at my cock. She took it all in her mouth and down the
back of her throat.
Taking more than
her share,
She had me
fighting for air,
She told me to
cum, but I was already there.
I filled her with
my pent-up power. But she wasn’t done –
no, not by a longshot.
She wanted no
applause,
Just another
course,
Made a meal out of
me,
And came back for more.
Had to cool me
down
To
take another round,
Now
I’m back in the ring
To
take another swing!
She
licked and sucked, bobbed up and down, and opened wide for my balls –
everything and anything she could do to get me back up and hard again. When she finally succeeded, she lowered
herself slowly on me once more and grabbed me, letting her nipples gently touch
mine as she let her body become enfolded in mine. I wrapped my arms around her and held her
tight.
Shower Time
From her state of
delirium, she began whispering in my ear.
“You know,” she
said in a hushed tone, “I think your family likes me.”
“I’m sure they
do,” I said.
“I mean,
especially your brothers. They really
like me.”
“I think they
really liked what they saw.”
“And I liked what
I saw.”
“What was that?” I
asked as I felt her excitement increasing with the taboo things coming out of
her mouth. I slowly moved my hands from
her back to her thighs, to her ass cheeks, and then I pulled them, spread them,
and placed my index finger on her special spot.
“They’re so
built,” she said enthusiastically, “so mature.”
“You mean old.”
“Not old.”
“Older than me.”
“Yeah, but in such
good shape.”
“I see,” I said,
knowing where she was going. . . and liking it.
“And so big.”
“Big?” I asked as
I entered her ass with my finger.
“Their cocks. Their balls.
Wearing a Speedo. . .”
She couldn’t
finish her thought. She was cumming and
cumming harder than any of the previous times.
My finger was deep inside her and I could feel her clenching up on it
and releasing multiple times.
When she was done,
all orgasms finally brought to fruition and her body exhausted, she said to me,
“That last orgasm, it felt just like I was riding that boogie board. It felt like I was riding that wave, topless,
the sea carrying me, lifting me, thrilling me, covering me with spume and salt
and sun.”
“Did you cum when
you were out there?”
“I think I might
have, a little bit.”
“You really are a
nymph, fucked by Poseidon himself.”
In the bar, I held my cold beer and watched from a distance as some stranger tried to pick up Lo. A smile ran across my beer-froth-covered lips as I saw her sitting on the barstool in her tight dress looking delectable with her curves in all the right places.
Earlier that night Lo and I had met up with the doppelgangers, Lilly and Jim, for the first Presidential Debate. None of us were up to the task of hosting, so we decided to enjoy the political poppycock in a public forum. We found the smallest, saddest, scuzziest dive-bar we could and went in there hoping for a subdued crowd of barflies. We got what we came for and the little old man tending bar was more than accommodating to us. Not only did he turn on the debate, but he had no objection to turning up the volume when a crowd of boisterous twenty-somethings filtered in (after being thrown out of some other place, no doubt).
When we arrived, Jim sat to the left, then Lilly to his right, and then Lo. I stood behind the three of them because I wanted to both hear the TV and also be able to hear everyone’s conversation. But that had the unintended, yet most welcome, consequence of making it look like Lo was unattached.
A middle-aged man in a flannel shirt came into the bar. I saw him glance over all the possibilities before he sat on the stool next to Lo and ordered a beer. Within mere moments he was talking with her – asking her what he had missed of the debate and soliciting her opinion about the opponents. At first, Lo was rebuffing his advances. I could tell by her body language. She repeatedly turned her back to him and tried to talk with the doppelgangers. But, by his second beer and repeated conversation starters, I could see that she was beginning to let her guard down. At one point she looked over her shoulder at me and, no doubt, saw my devilish grin. She responded with a mischievous, seductive look in her eyes, as if saying to me, “I’m going to leave this bar with you and fuck you later, but first I’m going to make you good and hard by flirting with this guy next to me.”
If that was her plan, she performed it to a tee.
Since Jim and Lilly have no inkling about Lo’s secret hotwife-life, when the guy at the bar got up to use the Loo, Lo took that opportunity to say to them, “I just realized, with HH standing back there and me here, it looks like I’m a third wheel! Like I’m single!” She said it as if it were astonishing, but I knew it was all an act. She added, “I think I’ll have some fun with this.”
When the man returned to his barstool, Lo turned to him, tossing her hair with her hand, and began a deep, heated conversation. I could only hear snippets of their words because they were talking in the hushed tones of an intimate exchange; no longer the public commentary on the debate.
Lo opened the conversation with, “So, are you married?”
“No, divorced,” I heard him respond and then he went on to explain for a while, much of which I didn’t catch.
Lo nodded her head and looked deep into his eyes, feigning empathy. At one point she put her hand on his and said, “Oh, you poor thing.”
Soon he was inching his stool closer to Lo’s and put his hand on her back and rubbed it up and down a bit. Lo leaned into it and made him feel comfortable doing it. She was flirting with her eyes and tongue.
I was rock hard in my pants as I pretended to be a bystander watching the debate, but I was actually watching the two of them very closely.
They talked and talked as the debate went on and on. Finally, when everyone stood up to leave, Lo introduced the man to Jim and Lilly and then turned to me and said, “And this is my boyfriend, HH. HH, meet So-and-So.” I didn’t catch his name because I was too enthralled by Lo’s dramatic flair for bringing her flirtations to an end. I extended my hand and shook his and then Lo and I left the bar, arm-in-arm, with the doppelgangers. When we were outside, we all had a pretty good laugh about it.
Back at home, Lo and I had a very good tryst in bed, as I told her what a bad girl she was and she repeatedly teased me with what a slut she is and the various things she would do with the guy from the bar. She admitted to me that the only reason she didn’t bring him home was because we were out with the doppelgangers and she didn’t want to take the chance of frightening them off. Let them find out more about us, little-by-little, first. She’s a wicked one.
“OK,” I said, not putting up any argument to her decision.
“I mean, he didn’t bother to call on my birthday,” she went on to explain her reasoning, “or to even ask how I’m doing when I called him for his birthday.” She paused, and I could see now that her lower lip was trembling a bit and she was allowing her mind to feel all that pain again, the way one presses on a bruise just to be reminded of how much it hurts. “So, fuck him! Maybe it will give him some much needed silent time to self-reflect about what an asshole he is.”
To be fair, she really had only touched on the tip of this iceberg of harm, neglect, and self-absorption. All her life he had been a palpably present absentee father. By that, I mean, he was there in body, but his mind was eons away alone on a raft floating in a sea of vodka. And in the past few years – the years she had been with me – his very active passivity had ramped up in ways that had caused serious damage to just about everyone around him. Like Jonah, sleeping in the hold of the ship while his choices caused the ship’s crew to risk life and limb in a tempest, Lo’s father was a whirlwind of destruction cycling around a ghost of the shell of a broken man.
And now it was Father’s Day and unfortunately Hallmark doesn’t make cards that say, “You didn’t try. You didn’t give a shit. I tried. I keep on trying. You lie and you keep on lying and I’m sick of it and so you can go to hell. Happy Father’s Day. Better luck next year.” So Lo didn’t get a card. She didn’t go to visit. She didn’t get a gift. And she sure as shit wasn’t going to call him. Yet, that decision put her into her own personal torment with the guilt of imagining her father alone on Father’s Day.
I held her for a while as she cried her eyes out. Perverse as it may be – I can’t help it – I find her crying and holding me arousing. She felt my barometer rising and she held me tighter. Tears were dripping down her cheek onto my shirt. Her hand slid down under my pants and grasped my shaft, holding it firmly. We began to kiss and our bodies danced horizontally of their own accord as our minds were locked on each other’s thoughts.
I entered her as she whispered in my ear, “I love you, Daddy.”
“Who do you love?”
“I love you, Daddy.”
“Say it again.”
“I love you, Daddy.”
She repeated it again and again, each time with a slightly different inflection as her hips rose and fell and pulsated and clenched.
My hand was behind her head, cupping her. I grabbed a tuft of hair. She reached up to my hand and tugged on it. She brought it to her cheek and held it there a moment. Then she pulled it back and forced it toward her face. I knew what she wanted. I gave it to her. Once. Again, harder. A third time, even harder.
Then she said, “Make it hurt, Daddy. Take away the pain.”
I opened my hand and threw it down with a whap.
“Again” she pleaded.
This time I used my left hand against her right cheek.
“Yes. Make it hurt.”
I continued with ever greater force and intensity until she was screaming, squirting, shaking, and then quietly breathing in a mind-state beyond consciousness.
I caressed her cheeks softly. I stroked her hair. I held her until she muttered, “I love you. . . Daddy” one last time.
Sometime back, you may recall, Lo and I met a couple whom we lovingly referred to as “the protégés.” Erin and Zach were, in many ways, a younger version of Lo and me. We had met them through an ad on Craigslist that Lo had placed looking for a third – male or female, or a couple – to help her with her insatiable appetite for sex. They answered the ad and we hit it off right away. Unfortunately, they lived pretty far away and meet-ups were difficult to arrange before they moved to the other side of the country.
Well, recently, I had the pleasure of meeting a new couple whose moniker here will be “the doppelgangers.” A while back I was presenting at a conference out-of-town when a friend said, “Oh, I have to introduce you to Jim. You two have so much in common.” At the dinner reception that night she made good on her promise and it turned out that Jim and I had even more in common than our match-maker imagined. Not only were our interests aligned, but we had studied at the same college, knew many of the same people professionally, and, oddest of all, it turned out that Jim lived in the same city as Lo and me. How had we not met before?!
But the uncanny coincidences didn’t stop there. While at the dinner, I noticed that Jim was sitting next to a slender, attractive blonde whom he introduced to me as his girlfriend Lilly. Lilly, I found out, was a student of sexuality and gender studies.
“You must meet Lola, my girlfriend,” I said, explaining that besides having the same consonantal pattern in their names, they are in a similar field – though Lo is engaged in sex therapy. I soon found out that Lilly’s focus was getting people to be “in touch,” literally and metaphorically, with themselves. Our dinner conversation was far better than the usual polite chit-chat. It was deep and philosophical and I couldn’t wait to introduce Lo to the doppelgangers.
The first weekend back at home we went out for a double date and, much to my surprise – though I should have seen it coming – Lo took to Jim right away but was not sold on Lilly. “Oh my God!” said Lo after the date, “Can’t you see it?”
“See what?” I asked, innocently.
“All that talk about sex and helping women to squirt and finding ways to treat men’s impotency – all of it!”
“What about it? I thought you’d find it. . . interesting.”
“She’s showing off. She’s looking for attention. She’s trying to shock us with her ‘open-mindedness,’ her – grrrrrrrrrrrrr!” Lo couldn’t find the right words and was frustrated.
“Lo,” I said, trying to be conciliatory, “Don’t you think that maybe it’s just that you two are so. . .” I hesitated to use the word, “similar?”
“WHAT?!”
I knew it. I shouldn’t have said it.
“How could you even suggest that?! She’s such a, such a, a, a. . .”
“Attention slut?”
“Yes!”
She agreed with me right away, but a split second later, the irony of it set in – the fact that I had specifically said about her in the past that she is an attention slut. She gave me a sidelong glance. “I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “You’re thinking that I’m also an attention slut.”
“Well, aren’t you?”
“Not like she is!”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t see the difference.”
She was ready to knock my block off when I said that. “She’s desperate for attention,” Lo insisted. “I’m just good at getting it and I enjoy it. That’s the difference.”
“Whose attention is she desperate to get?” I asked.
“Don’t play dumb with me.”
“Whatever do you mean?” I admit, I was toying with her a bit and found the situation amusing.
“Don’t think I didn’t see how she was flirting with you. ‘Oh, HH, tell me more about. . . and, HH, what do you think of. . . .’” She quoted Lilly in a mocking, bimbo caricature voice, batting her eyelashes at me and smiling falsely.
“Was that how she was talking?” I asked.
“Yes. And don’t think for a second that I didn’t see her checking out your package.” She looked down at my crotch and stared.
“Was she?” I asked with mock naïveté.
“Fuck off!”
“So is that really what this is about?”
“What?”
“You’re afraid of her attracting my attention.”
“No!”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” There was a pause. “No. I mean, I’m insecure. There. I’ll own it. I’m afraid that you’ll find her waiflike, Kate Hudson, faux-innocence with a dirty mouth attractive and you’ll leave me for her. You know I have abandonment issues. And frankly, it’s not an irrational thought, is it?” The levy had broken and now the flood of her thoughts was unleashed. “I mean, look at your history – you’ve left every single woman you’ve ever been involved with. You’ve never been broken up with. You’ve only done the breaking up. Why shouldn’t I be insecure? You tell me practically on a daily basis that you are free as a bird to do whatever it is you want. For our first anniversary you bought me a bracelet that said ‘Impermanence.’ I mean, what the hell?! What do you think a woman is going to understand from that? Don’t you think that I have a reason to feel threatened, to be insecure? Look at her – she’s your dream come true. Isn’t she? She’s skinny and she talks about sex incessantly and she looks at you with those eyes that say fuck me and she wants an older father-figure of a man and she shuts me down and. . .”
She wasn’t done talking, but I grabbed her and held her closely and with a bit of a grin on my face, amused at her sudden confession, I said, “Even if all that were true – though I deny that it is – but even if it were true, so what?”
“So what?” she asked, looking up at me with the tears running down her face, pulling her mascara down in straight lines over her cheeks.
“Yeah, so what?”
“I’m scared you’ll leave me. That’s so what.”
“Lo,” I said, “even if everything you just said was true, there’s one thing that you are leaving out of the picture.”
“What’s that?” She was more quiet now. Ready to listen.
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“Not to me.”
“Lo,” I said, looking into her eyes, “she’s not you and I’m in love with you. Only you. All I want is you. Yes, I may be a bit flattered if a woman shows some interest in me now and again. Can you blame me? I’m not anywhere near as attractive and appealing to others as you are. You get men and women showing an interest in you all the time. So, let me bask in some attention on occasion. I’m not interested in anyone else but you.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean why?”
“I mean, what do I have that she doesn’t have?”
“I don’t know. I can’t explain it,” I said as I put my lips to her forehead and took a deep breath with my nose buried in her hair. “The way you smell. The touch of your flesh against mine. The sound of your voice when you call me ‘Daddy.’ The way you know when I’m depressed before even I do. The way you make me laugh. Everything. It’s as if every cell in my body shares DNA with every cell in yours and that DNA is meant to be intertwined together in its double-helix union. My genetic structure calls out for you and only you answer that call. It’s as if we are of one psyche. Your thoughts are mine and mine yours and without you I’d be braindead.”
“If that’s really so, then why do we fight so often?”
“Don’t you know?”
“No.”
“I think you do.”
“Tell me.”
“We fight,” I said quietly and gently, “only because you’re afraid.”
“Afraid? Afraid of what?”
“You know.”
“Say it for me.”
“Afraid of admitting the truth – that we are so closely connected that if I were to leave, your biology and psyche would also be severed. You’re afraid of accepting my love because you fear, deep down, that I am going to leave you. And so you fight it rather than accept it. To accept it wholeheartedly would mean being fully, completely vulnerable – even more vulnerable than you already feel. Deep down you want me to leave. You want your worst nightmare to come true because then you wouldn’t be vulnerable. Then you could put up your wall as high as the stratosphere and sit comfortably alone behind your defenses and not sit with this uncomfortable insecurity and vulnerability. You want me to hate you and leave you because you don’t feel that you’re deserving of me and my love and you want to prove yourself right. Well, I’m here to tell you you’re wrong. I love you. But, it’s like Bruce Springsteen says, ‘You can’t shut off the risk and the pain without losing the love that remains.’ Love is never secure, never complete, never safe. If it were, then you’d leave and look for someone else.”
“Who’s to say that I won’t leave, looking for someone else?” she asked, defiantly.
“Oh, you might go looking for someone else. You might find someone else. You might fuck someone else. But you’ll always come back to me.”
“Why should I?” she asked, still as stubborn as ever – trying to disprove my accurate insight into her psychology.
“Because you love me.”
“I love you because you can leave me at any time and because I love you, I want you to leave me? That’s your theory?”
I nodded yes.
“Well, you’re wrong,” she said, obstinately. “I hate you. I just love hating you so much that I want to fuck you, cause when we fuck, I know I’ve got you in my power and you’re mine.”
“Why?”