A story to tell

 I think it was 2018.

I can’t remember which girlfriend I had broken up with at the time. Maybe it was one of those empty periods between my short-lived loves, when I was single but not exactly free. For some reason, fortune was smiling at me in those days, at least in terms of women.

By then, I had accepted a certain truth about dating apps. I didn’t have the photos, the clothes, or the polished little lifestyle required to fuck nice, beautiful blondes. I didn’t dress well. I didn’t even like dressing well. Put me in a fashionable suit and I felt stupid, uncomfortable, like someone had dressed up a criminal for court.

So I did what a man does when he wants experience more than beauty.

I took whatever I could get my hands on.

Usually, that meant the ugly and fat ones.

This girl was no exception.

From the moment we matched, we talked about sex. She was a veteran in the field. She told me stories about lesbian adventures, threesomes, things she had done, things she wanted to do. I wasn’t exactly attracted to her, but I was curious and bored, and curiosity and boredom have dragged better men than me into worse women.

We met shortly after in a coffee shop, late in the evening, after her work. I was unemployed then. I don’t remember what we talked about. That usually means it wasn’t interesting. At some point, she asked me to sit next to her and we kissed.

What I remember more than anything she said was the look on her face. That hungry, hopeful look. It’s a strange and disgusting thing to see desire in someone you don’t really desire back. I suppose women see that look all the time. Maybe that is one of the small daily horrors of being a woman.

We stayed there until the coffee shop closed, around ten, and then we walked to her place.

Her apartment was big, like herself. She took me into the living room first while she went to prepare drinks. I didn’t want to drink with her. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to be there. But I didn't have anything better to do, and that was enough.

So I decided to skip the drink and went into the kitchen.

She was standing by the counter with the wine glasses. I came up behind her and grabbed her.

She giggled with that sharp little voice and said, “Do you want to do it standing here?”

That made me think about the logistics.

I would either have to squat or make her stand on a chair. Neither option seemed worth the effort. It was one of those moments in life when lust dies because of geometry.

“No,” I said. “Let’s go to bed. I like it better.”

“Okay,” she said, and put the wine glasses back on the counter.

On the way to the bedroom, she started taking off her clothes. T-shirt, pants, everything flying into the air like she was performing on a stage. By the time we reached the bed, she was standing there in only her bra and panties. Then she took off her bra too.

Man, I had never seen breasts that big in my life, and I hope I never see them again. They were enormous and saggy, hanging down with a kind of tragic confidence. Her underwear smelled like a wet towel, but at least there was no smell of pus. So I took it off and started playing with her cunt.

She was wet.

Completely wet.

More than necessary.

She asked me if I liked it that way. Then she whispered that she sometimes felt ashamed of getting that wet during the first fuck.

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I pushed her head down.

She went down, started sucking me.

All I could see was her curly hair and those huge breasts hanging there like meat on hooks. But she knew what she was doing, she was a pro. That wet mouth did its job, and soon I was ready.

I held her by the neck and moved her beside me.

Then there was that little pause.

I waited for her to mention a condom.

She didn’t.

I didn’t either.

I hated condoms anyway. So I thought, what the hell, I’m here already. Why not go all the way?

I opened her legs and went in without rubber.

It slipped into her like a knife through warm butter, and she moaned immediately.

I liked that.

I like women making noise during sex. It gives you the illusion that you are doing something right, something important. A man doing the business, you know. Performing his ancient little duty.

I didn’t want to look at her face too much, and I didn’t want to kiss her, so after a few strokes I turned her around, got her on her knees, and started fucking her from behind.

I started slowly, then found my rhythm.

She knew how to bend over. I’ll give her that. She knew how to give that ass, and she gave it all the way. I took it. We were fucking like pigs, and she was screaming like one being slaughtered.

I was on antidepressants at the time. My dick was hard, but I couldn’t feel much. It made things better for the woman because it took longer, sometimes almost forever, but it made it less pleasurable for the man. That was the joke of it. The body was there, doing its job, but the signal was weak.

So I went harder to get more pleasure.

Then faster.

She screamed louder.

I could hear my balls slapping against her big stupid ass between her screams.

It was a warm night in a quiet neighbourhood, and both windows were wide open. For a second, I thought the neighbours might call the police. Then I thought, let them. I was a king in that moment.

A king fucking a pig.

I pumped and pumped.

She screamed and screamed.

Sweat dripped from my forehead onto her back and ass. I could feel it running down my neck, over my chest, down my back, into the heat of that ridiculous room. The whole thing was funny and disgusting. And still, there was power in it. A stupid, animal power. The kind that makes a man mistake himself for a god when really he is only another sweating body in another room.

Then I felt it coming.

Slowly at first. A pressure rising from somewhere deep and dumb. I kept the rhythm. I grabbed her handles harder, buried my fingers deeper. She was fat, but her flesh had a firmness to it. I held on to it.

Just before I came, I pulled out, pushed her down, pressed the back of her neck with my left hand, stroked myself a few times, and came all over her back.

Then I collapsed beside her.

For a while, I just lay there trying to catch my breath. Then I turned onto my back and stared at the ceiling. She was still moaning and making small noises beside me.

The room changed after that.

There was only the smell of sweat, sperm, sex, and that wet-towel underwear somewhere on the floor. No sound of bodies hitting bodies anymore. No screaming. No stage. No performance.

The room was quiet now.

Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that comes after pretending to be a king and remembering, suddenly, that you are not one.

The illusion faded too quickly and It left behind the same old sadness, sitting there in the room with us. She was beside me, getting herself together, still warm, still breathing, still pleased with whatever had happened.

And I was already somewhere else.

Already turning it into words, already trying to make it mean something.

But it didn’t mean anything.

Not really.

Still, at least I had a story to tell.