“Are you a slut?”
It is an honest question, but you can see how it could be taken the wrong way. At the same time, you know she won’t take offence, and your hypothesis is correct when she glances over at you with a smile.
“I guess so,” she replies. Turning her head back to face the ceiling she continues smiling. “I’d call myself promiscuous, actually.”
Her naked body glistens slightly from the recent strenuous coitus. You can’t bring yourself to call it “fucking” because to you it isn’t just that. However, you know well enough that that was all it has ever been to her and you do not expect her to change her opinion. As if sensing your thoughts starting to shift to a more emotional place, she sits up and stretches, a sign that she is done resting and no longer wants to remain in your company.
“Why don’t you ever stay after we have sex?” you ask, trying to keep the hurt from creeping into the question.
“What for?” she retorts, rummaging around the mess of clothes on your bedroom floor, undoubtedly searching for her underwear. She always picks up her clothes in a particular order and her panties are always first. All her clothes could be in plain sight, but she won’t touch any of them until she first finds her panties and puts them on. Then comes the bra (if she wore one), then the pants and finally the top. You enjoy watching her while she’s getting dressed because she doesn't do it in a hurry, which balms the feelings of rejection that always come when she uses you and leaves. It also gives you an opportunity to further admire her from afar as she takes her time to make sure she looks as good going out as she did coming in, something you inexplicably admire.
“Most girls love to cuddle and shit.”
“I’m not most girls,” she laughs.
She’s spotted her panties — today, they’re white with a partial map of the London underground printed on the ass. She slips them on with her back to you and for a second you’re lost in the perfect roundness of her ass. She turns around and you meet her eyes. She flashes you a smile that is too innocent for a bedroom that reeks of fucking. The hunt for her bra begins — it’s black with white polka dots and a little white bow in-between the cups — but it’s short lived for the bra is easy to spot, hanging off the floor lamp beside you. When she’s next to you putting the bra on you can still smell her delicious juices even through the cotton panties. In fact, you smell nothing but her wetness for hours after every time you’re together.
“Don’t you get sick of it?”
“Of what?” she responds. She’s distracted because she’s now searching for her dress. The royal blue summer dress she wore today — which hugs her curves and is sexy while still being modest — is your favourite.
“Of fucking so many different guys so often.”
“Why would I?” she asks, still preoccupied in her hunt. You have no answer for her.
“Aha!” she exclaims spotting her dress strewn over the small sofa across from the bed where your own clothes were haphazardly shed and flung, and which also holds all your unfolded laundry. “You may wanna clean this shit up once in a while,” she says as she climbs into the dress.
“You love it,” you sass and she chuckles.
She grabs her purse and from it removes a few items of make up then takes them to the dresser and begins retouching her face.
“Don’t the other guys get sore that you just use them and leave?”
She pauses and turns to look at you. “Are you kidding? Guys usually don’t want a girl hanging around after they’ve fucked her.”
“There must be some who do,” you mumble, embarrassed that you do not fall into the same category as the rest of her lovers. “Just like you like to leave right after, there must be guys who’d like you to stay.”
“If there are, I wouldn’t want to associate with them.”
You’re suddenly hurt by her words, which seem harsh and unnecessarily cruel. Why would she want to disassociate with someone just because they preferred to show some intimacy? Why did sex have to be such an emotionally detached, animalistic act every time? What was wrong with feeling once in a while? These questions and dozens more like them were always crowding your mind after a visit from her and you had never been able to gather enough nerve to come right out and ask her. Maybe you were afraid of the answers or maybe you just didn’t want to rock the boat and lose her.
“Haven’t you ever fallen for any of these guys?”
You regret asking as soon as the words leave your lips. You don’t particularly want to hear about the guys who touch her heart the way you’ve never been able to, but it’s too late because she’s stopped applying her lipstick and is thinking.
“Not really,” she replies finally and immediately returns to her make up. She doesn’t say anymore and you suddenly wonder if she has just lied to you. You haven’t any time to dwell, though, because she’s packing up her purse and slipping on her sandals. “Anyway, I’ll catch you later, okay?”
You sit up in bed and blurt out, “Why do you do it?” Seeing her confused face, you clarify: “Why do you just go around fucking so much?”
She stares at you with furrowed brows, her mouth twisting one way and then the other, something she does when she’s pondering seriously. You don’t know if you’re about to receive the blatant truth or a dismissive joke and for some reason you find your heart beating faster in anticipation of her response.
When she finally answers, it’s in a strictly matter-of-fact tone: “‘Cause fucking is cheaper than drinking.”
Then she shrugs, waves and walks out.