You keep fucking the same person and you’ll learn some things about yourself. Where at first you may have been timid and nervous, you eventually get confident and practice does make perfect. The insecurities you had about whether or not you were moving your hips right, groping just hard enough to be pleasant or using your mouth adequately all wash away as you learn to fall into rhythm with each other. Where you once felt you failed as a lover you now feel as if you were Casanova incarnate.
For me, I’d always worried that I wasn’t swiveling my hips around enough to really make the guy appreciate my cunt. I used to lie there and try to keep up with his thrusts, but I’ve always been bad at keeping time so I always fell out of sync. It used to humiliate me. I used to walk out of my fuck buddy’s apartment in shame, fearing that I was his worst lay ever. But he kept calling me back and kept responding when I called him, and one day we found each other gyrating in person unison and both of us moaning in harmonized pleasure. All it took was some practice.
Because I fucked him more often than I fucked anyone else, my body began to move with his better than with anyone else’s. We didn’t know each other’s last name, but we knew the words to the most perfect carnal duet and sang it often, perfecting it more and more until it got to the point when my greatest sexual thrill became fucking him. His pressing all the right buttons and making all the right moves would result in my leaving his place with a cigarette hanging from my lis which were etched into a grin of contentment. I began to crave his dick, specifically his more than anyone else’s, and to the delight of my libido and ego, he seemed to crave me too.
At first we resorted to each other in times of carnal desperation, but then I started relying on him for the specific sort of ecstasy only he could provide. I’d have lovers all over the place and while some were great and left me screaming like Sally at the restaurant, those lovers were few and far in between. My fuck buddy never made me scream like Sally, but rereleased from me any stress that I carried. We had a routine and it never got boring.
I would walk into his place and he wouldn’t waste a second before grabbing me by the hair and kissing me, hard. Sometimes he had me suck him off while i got off on his moans of pleasure and other times he would just throw me onto his bed, tear off my clothes and begin pounding me: my arms pinned above my head and my pussy filling up with his cock as if they had been made for each other. Often he’d flip me over and pound into me from behind, smacking my ass and vocalizing his lustful admiration of it; he was the first person I let fuck me in the ass and sometimes he rewarded himself the pleasure of feeling his thick dick in my tight little anus. He’d finish in me, usually always making me cum seconds before he himself did and then we’d catch our breaths for a split second before getting dressed and parting ways.
“Catch ya later,” I’d call to him as I slipped out of his apartment and then strut down the street feeling like a lottery win. Somehow, I breather easier after a fuck by him and my cigarette tasted better. The world seemed calmer and my prelims not nearly as mountainous. My mind was unclogged and ideas flowed freely, and I was literally at peace.
No one can blame me for becoming dependent on that exhilaration. As someone who had found sadness at every turn through my life, why wouldn’t I cling to something that made me feel better — in every way — more adequately than medication, therapy, alcohol or anything else ever had? Fucking was healthier, cheaper and more fun than all those things anyway and I had found a lover with whose body my body had learned to dance. But lustful dependency comes at a price and, for me, that price was possession.
I wanted this man. I wanted him all to myself. I wanted to harvest his skills and keep anyone else from experiencing the thrills he provided. I had no romantic feelings for him and found him only moderately attractive, but I wanted to stamp my name on his dick and forbid any other cunt from swallowing it. I started considering it mine; his body was mine and, while I continued to lend my body to many other lovers, I hated the idea of my fuck buddy doing the same. I had learned to dance for this dick and I felt that that somehow gave me an exclusive right to it. I began mentally criticizing my other lovers, event he decent ones, for not being anywhere close to on par with my fuck buddy and soon I started seeing less and less of them. The lack of outside lovers meant I relied even more heavily on my fuck buddy and while I was fine with fucking only him, I was distracted by the fact that he still fucked others, that his dick was not mine alone. Sometimes I would see a rogue earring or tampon wrapper in his apartment and I’d feel myself boiling with jealousy. I tortured myself wondering if they were as good as I, if he fucked them the way he fucked me, if he danced with them our personal dance, sang with them our private duet.
It got so I became preoccupied with these worries. Without notice, one day, I lost time with his thrusts and at first considered it just a fluke until it happened again. And then again. Suddenly, I was forgetting the word to that cherished song I was trying so hard to keep between us. I was forgetting the steps to our dance while I devoted my energies to my preoccupations. I fooled myself into thinking he hadn’t noticed and by the way he acted you never would have guessed otherwise. But he had noticed, as I learned eventually when he turned down my offer for sex for the first time without a reason. The it happened again and again, and then I noticed that he hadn’t called on me in weeks. I realized I hadn’t been fucked in a while and it abruptly hit me that I had been dropped. Dumped. Discarded because my usefulness had come to an end.
Now, I sit without a doubt in my head that my former fuck buddy is out sharing his dick with a gaggle of other more worthy women and I continue to feel that familiar burn of jealousy.