Night of Bad Sex
The night before we had been watching the film The Pianist illuminated on her bedroom wall. I had been making appropriate and thoughtful comments throughout until they had thrown the disabled man, wheelchair and all, off a third floor balcony. “They’re only showing the bad bits,” I said. “Oh they should show all the good bits should they?” she asks in a sharp revoke. I say nothing more for a while.
Then the Russians came. The last Germans units were killed or fled the ruined city as it was liberated, and the pianist had lived through it all to play the tale. We had sex later. Emotionally charged; a bit sad, as if this might be our last fuck, as if I were being deported tomorrow.
Suddenly I felt divine clamping and the draw starts to fail – abort- abort – mission over guys as they crash land useless over the soft meadow of her belly all less than two minutes later.
She regains her bearings, still spread out beneath me – next we will have to piece together what happened. I take the stand:
The charge is laid out: Wanton, lazy bad and selfish sex. There’s not much I can say in my defence with all the DNA evidence laid out before me, and even I’m not totally sure what has happened.
"Well, make it better then!" she says. I am obligated to finish what I have started, but after the main tool goes down, I am at a slight loss what to do. I cannot go backwards on her. "Do you want a lickin’" I ask unenthusiastic. We fall asl**p. Sometimes she is in my arms but in the end we divide and take up lonely positions.
The dawn brings the reality streaming in, the traffic starting to drone into one morning herd. "I did it because I wanted to see why we were together and if I was just a symbol to you, that’s why it happened like that." In my own mind it is slightly less clear, though this seems like it actually might be true. "You mean you did bad sex on purpose?" "Yes, but if it's any consolation I didn’t enjoy it to the extent that it appeared, in fact it was just as bad for me, plus the fact that men have to perform." "Hmm" she says, after a brief deliberation, already with her professional mind dusted off for work; "so I’ll try it with someone else," she says, casting me aside like a worn Duracell bunny. The message is loud and clear – there are many other contenders for this honey pot and it might be time for a reshuffle. But I am also in a philosophical mood about it. It started with bad sex, so it finishes with bad sex, with some good stuff in between, obviously. There were times when the old man seemed to be the only thing standing up in the way of her attempts to rid herself of me, the host – and find a more suitable man. "Jindra loves me" she says. "He says he wants to marry me." I look at his latest Skype entry. It’s all loved up emoticons as usual. "Jindra is a fat fuck" I say, "and he’s already married." She laughs and then sighs. And so it seems her expanding social sphere is still starved of the perfect man, whilst I remain the plan B boyfriend. And so with everything now in place, my last defence against obsolescence now withered away it is time to call it a day. I set off with higher spirits that at last it’s all over. We had split before, with each split more and more definite, but now, this one seemed the most definitive up to date.
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