I bleed the anguish out in this bed. I cut myself open to let the pain out as I fuck people. I search for my husband’s touch with others. I hold them because I can’t hold him. I go after them and say I don’t want anything but their bodies. I don’t care what they do for a living. I don’t care what they want in life. I don’t care to have them stay afterwards.
My husband is gone, and I want them for a moment to pin me down with the weight of their humanness, and the warmth of their aliveness. I want it all to erase the unpleasant feelings incessantly gnawing on my guts reminding me that I’m on my own.
Nicholas is my recent one and the one I see the most. He’s married and has a kid, a little girl named Mazy. He takes his marital frustrations out on my body, and I bury my sadness in his which is kind of funny seeing as he literally puts himself inside of me.
Afternoon sun light peeks through the closed blinds in our, I mean, my guest bedroom. I don’t fuck anyone in our bed. I keep the door to that room closed. Nicholas has asked to see it twice, asked to see a picture of my husband a couple of times as well, kindly insinuating it may help me to talk about it. I vehemently refused. He hasn’t brought it up since. He knows the days that I am rough with him, when I climb on top of him and pin him beneath me and come hard and fast are the challenging days, the ones where I am brimming with anger and frustration and want something or someone to take it out on.
He doesn’t mind being the punching bag so to speak for my unrelenting emotions. I don’t mind being his either, for when he’s upset at whatever is going on in his home, he too is sharp with me and I enjoy it.
Nicholas is pounding away on top of me, grunting every now and then. The silkiness of his erection effortlessly slips in and out of me. I am a well-oiled machine. I require little foreplay which makes it easier, faster. I just want the fix, the feel of skin on skin, and lips pressed against mine.
We met in a bookstore a couple of months ago which sounds romantic except it wasn’t really. He asked me where he could find guide books for Iceland, thinking I worked there as I perused the aisles. I happened to know where the travel section was and pointed him in the right direction. He then asked if the store had a specific book. One that was a collection of essays I had never heard of.
“I don’t actually work here.” I told him.
“Oh! You don’t? I’m sorry! But you…” he trailed off.
“I what?” I flirtatiously challenged.
“I mean, you, um, you answered my question and uh, ok, don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re rockin’ the librarian thing. So I figured…uh, you know what I mean?”
“No. No I don’t know what you mean.” I cocked my head to the side, giving him a hard time. I was wearing a simple black dress with flats. I had tied up my plain brown hair in a bun on the top of my head, securing it with a pen, and I traded my contact lenses for my tortoise shell frames that afternoon.
“I’m sorry. I’m making an ass of myself. Thank you. Thank you for your help. I’ll uh, go find someone who actually works here.”’
I couldn’t hide my smile as he walked away. Half an hour later, he was still perusing travel books and I was in the cooking section. I studied him. He was easy to see over the shelves. His bright orange hair shining like a beacon, his tall, slim frame hunched over whatever book he had found. I didn’t miss his giant wedding band while we were talking. All the hot ones have giant wedding bands.
I wanted him, wanted a fix, and walked over to interrupt his reading.
“Did you find what you were looking for?”
“I didn’t think you worked here.” he smirked.
“Let’s pretend that I do.”
“Then yes, I found what I wanted and then some. I’m Nicholas.” he extended his hand.
“Carly. It’s nice to meet you.” I take it, delighted with his extra firm grip and the quick once-over he gave my chest.
“You as well. Uh, sorry for earlier.”
“Don’t apologize. I’m here a lot and know pretty much where every section is. I know the glasses and hair don’t help my case. So Iceland huh?”
“Yeah. Boy’s trip. We go somewhere every year. Last year was Scotland. Have you been?
“I haven’t been to either country. I don’t know much about Scotland but I hear Iceland is incredible.”
While he spoke of the things he wanted to do while out there, I stepped closer to him, and took his hand, my heart racing at knowing he could, and should reject my advance.
We fucked in the bathroom at the bookstore. I was bent over, hands pressed against the wall for leverage, my dress over my hips, tights around my thighs, him behind me with that gorgeous cock drilling my cunt. I felt high, fucked up on dopamine, oxytocin and all the “love” chemicals that get released when physically bonding with another human.
“You should come over one day.” I said to him once we were outside.
“I’ve never done anything like this before.” he replied, his eyes wide.
“Like this.” he gestured wildly. “I’ve never cheated on my wife.”
“It’s up to you.” I said as I scribbled my number on a scrap of paper I found in my bag.
He called the next day and here we are. I do think about when I’m going to stop this. When I will let go of this behavior and pave a new life alone without human crutches. I know it’s callous of me to say that, to use them like this, but I can’t help it.
Today is an apathetic one. The broken record of “my husband is dead, gone, vanished.” is still repeating itself followed by realizing how sweaty I am with Nick on top of me. He doesn’t like it when I shorten his name. I don’t think I’m going to come. When is he going to be done? My husband is dead.
Nicholas likes to lick my neck, says he likes the taste of my sweat. I don’t care what he does to me really as long as his cock is inside me. It’s the most beautiful cock I’ve ever seen. Long, thick, and slightly paler than the color of his thighs. The shape of its head is in perfect proportion to the shaft, not too narrow or too wide. It’s not some weird fucking color, or shape. It’s perfect.
I grab his ass, our sweat making his body slip against mine. I pull him in deeper wrapping my legs around his waist and squeezing him. He shoves his hands underneath my ass and continues pounding me. I examine his chest, the sparse, strawberry blonde hair that is sprinkled around his nipples and along his pecs. He’s so much taller than me. Six two to my five feet. I like it. I like feeling like he could put me in his pocket.
He’s coming. I can feel it. His thighs and ass always tighten before he lets go. He doesn’t verbally warn me like most of the others do. Its ok if they don’t warn me, unless I’m sucking someone’s dick, then I want to know so I don’t choke if their cum slips down my throat. I have a sensitive gag reflex.
He pulls out and comes on my stomach, the smell of his semen hits me in the face. I enjoy the scent. I like the animalistic parts of myself that get turned on by things like his semen, our sweat and my cunt all mixed together.
The liquid on my skin is cold almost immediately after he’s done. I smile for him, as a sort of “congratulations, you did it!” way and he leaps off the bed to grab a towel.
He mops up the clear mess as I lay there watching his hands, his long fingers pushing the towel over my skin. I watch him toss it on the floor before joining me, laying on his side, his fingers going for my clit. He knows that gets me off the fastest.
I open my legs wider for him. I’m still slippery from fucking. He teases my crevice, fingertips just barely grazing it as he goes back and forth. I close my eyes, cover my face with my hand and let everything get dark.
My heart is heavy, hot and tender, like something is singeing it while an anchor is pulling it down, pinning me to the bed. My lungs feel dry, and charred from crying so hard it’s a wonder I have any tears left.
I feel all of this while Nicholas’ hands are manipulating my cunt. I see my husband’s face in my mind’s eye. We’re standing on the street corner waiting to cross. My hand is enveloped in his, wind whipping through my hair as I laugh at something he said. I see him asleep next to me. I see him at a dinner table, his eyes shining, his smile lighting me up. I am so happy there. It’s my birthday and I’m turning thirty seven.
Nicholas’ fingers keep rubbing my clit as I draw in long, slow deep breaths, my brain focused on these memories. It’s the only time I can see them, examine them, when someone else is touching me. It’s the only time it feels safe enough to do so, like this current partner will prevent me from losing my mind completely, from losing control because the love of my life is dead and I have no idea how one recovers from that.
The memories my brain picks of my husband always change and rarely repeat. Sometimes we’re on a vacation together, or its Christmas or we’re in bed. I can’t stay too long with those. They shine light on what is and isn’t happening. They show me that the fingers between my legs are not his but someone else’s. The cock that splits me open belongs to someone who belongs to someone else and these aren’t things I can be with for too long.
“Are you close?” he asks and I remove my hand, open my eyes. I blink twice.
“I mean, I’m sorry. I have to go soon. I have to pick up my daughter.”
Everything crashes down in that moment.
Everything I will never have with my husband, the future I’ve been grieving, the memories, the shock, the funeral, everything, falls to pieces. Nicholas watches his little girl grow up every single day. He goes home to his wife’s face every day and maybe that kills him on the inside just a little and it’s why he’s here with me, but I don’t have that luxury of getting to decide whether to stay or go. What I wouldn’t do to have it again. The shitty stuff, the yelling, the arguing; the sweet stuff, the trips, the companionship, the feeling of “we have the rest of our lives”, the dinners, the cooking, the dishes, the movies, the laughing, the secret language only we know. I want to fight with my husband again just so I can hear the powerful strength of his voice. I want to wrap my arms around him just to hear his heart beat against my ear, to know that he’s here, and I’m his person and he is mine.
“Then go.” I reply in a hushed tone.
“I’m really sorry.” Jake says, his hands leaving my body as he climbs off the bed and gathers his clothes. I don’t notice him step into his underwear, his jeans. I don’t watch him pull on his button up shirt. I’m staring at the ceiling wondering what I’m going to make for dinner so I don’t have to acknowledge that he is leaving and I will be launched back into the silence of my home again.
He lightly kisses my lips and says goodbye.
I cover my eyes with my hand again, listening to his footsteps, holding, waiting to hear him walk down the stairs and out our, I mean my, front door.
When he’s gone, I open my eyes, my hand resting on my forehead, my other one sliding down the length of my torso. I stop when I feel the pubic hair, prickly against my fingers. I hesitate but only briefly before moving down, fingers sliding over my clit, parting my lips and teasing the opening before sliding back up to press against my clit.
I tremble and shake. It’s been months since I’ve gotten off on my own. I feel like I can’t breathe, like every bone in my body will shatter in this instant. Everything that I have fucked away is leaking out of every pore. All the sadness, the heartache, confusion and fumbling around that I’ve tried so hard to keep contained is radiating out of me.
I press harder, faster, tears pooling spilling over the edges of my eyes. I cry for my loss, for my fear, for my inability to control or explain, or deal with this situation. No one says that one day, when you’re still young, you’re going to lose him. You’re going to have to figure it out again on your own, or that the memories knock on the doors of your mind and you sob at the most inopportune times, like while picking out which fucking mango to buy at the fucking grocery store.
I writhe against my hand while I imagine my husband’s hand there. I want to scream with everything I’ve got, let out all the anger and feelings of unfairness at having to function in society without my love, of having a body when his is in the ground, at hearing my heart beat by itself. There aren’t enough bodies in the world I could fill myself with to take it all away.
My hips rise and fall against my fingers as I start to let go and feel. Feel the safety and support of the mattress beneath me. I untangle the rage, by moving the way I want, letting my body’s desire take over, bending my knees so my feet are flat on the bed, my thighs and hips working harder, sparkling sensations rushing through them.
I shove my fingers inside of my cunt and slow down a little, sliding them in an out while I pinch my nipples like my husband did, just hard enough, pulling slightly before it would hurt.
Tears are still spilling out of my eyes as I think about him, hovering over me, sliding in and out of my body, his face beaming as we fucked. He could always make me laugh regardless of what we were doing or where we were. I slip away into that feeling, into the comfort of the memories I have, into the comfort of being here, giving myself pleasure for once. Allowing myself in this moment to experience the love I can still express and extend toward myself.
An orgasm crashes into me like a flood pushing over a dam. My eyes shut, wringing out their tears, my soaked fingers still working my pulsing clit as pleasure pushes, expands, contracts and moves through my legs, hips, ass and cunt.
I yell as it overtakes me washing through my bloodstream like a sedative. I’m a mixture of laughter and tears as my heart calms down, my mind’s eye shutting down the processing of our memories and my body succumbs to the heaviness of sleep.
My husband is dead but I’m still here, spent and sated.