One minute Brown Eyes and I were screaming at each other in the middle of the living room and the next he was fucking me up against the draining board in the kitchen. It all happened so fast and I’m not entirely sure I wasn’t saying no as he didn’t even bother to unzip my jeans before tugging them around my ankles and shoving me up onto the countertop. In fact he even apologised afterwards if it had felt a little ‘rapey’ (his words), he didn’t want to hurt me but for a moment, he lost his mind. He really wanted me.
We were arguing because we’d fallen asleep on the couch the night before. He’d woken me up, attempted to get me to walk to bed, and had to deal with the beast that often comes out when you wake me from a deep slumber. I was pissed because it was now 3am, we were both sleepy, and the naughty night we’d planned now wasn’t going to happen. Plus he’d just woken me up. Wakeup g-r-u-m-p. I slumped into his bed, curled myself up right at the very edge, and wrapped myself up in his duvet. Double-sized duvet on a super kingsize bed. That’s your first problem my friend, the duvet to bed ratio is all off.
He climbed into bed beside me, rolling himself up on his side of the bed, the two of us caught up in a duvet-hogging war that only lasted for a few heavy, sigh-filled minutes before he got up, stomped into the living room and rolled himself a spliff.
For the next four hours, I slept and woke, slept and woke, slept and woke until at 7am, I awoke for good realising he still wasn’t in the bed beside me. I’d always assumed he would just come back after he’d smoked. It made me sad that he hadn’t and as I rolled my little size ten frame around his massive super kingsize bed, my heart sunk.
Our first real fight.
Here’s a piece of relationship advice for you: NEVER fall asleep on a fight because you will want to murder each other the next morning.
It started over nothing obviously, a stupid combination of sleepy and horny as we’d fallen asleep heavy petting to a movie. Who falls asleep heavy petting to a movie? Well, us apparently. I guess we’re old? But as most fights do between couples, things were soon misunderstood and everything escalated to a point where I was packing my bag and storming out of his house, threatening to never come back if he didn’t sort out his crazy ass behaviour.
He didn’t say anything as I opened his front door. As I took one step out, he still didn’t say a word. As I stomped out further, his door almost closing behind me, I was filled with rage. Why hadn’t he stopped me yet? Why hadn’t he told me not to leave? Turning on my heels, I caught the door before it shut behind me and blew back into his living room like an angry gust of wind.
“What the fuck is your fucking problem? I apologised for being a bitch, I’ve apologised twice now. Why did you tell me to fucking leave?”
He started shouting, a bad move with my abusive ex-husband fucking up my head and all, and as I felt the tears well up inside me, I realised I was shaking. I was scared. I hate it when I get shouted at. As my fight-or-flight switch hovered towards flight, I grabbed my bag, threw it over my shoulder and went to storm out one more time.
I don’t know what it was he said, I can’t even remember, but it was something stupid, petty, perhaps something about me being an asshole. Whatever it was, it made me look back at him and as I stopped, ready to release every angry demon I had inside me, I saw he had a tear rolling down his cheek. He’s no good at this confrontation business either.
I didn’t know what else to do. All of a sudden I wasn’t angry anymore. I didn’t want to fight with this man, he’s not the man I should be fighting with. I didn’t even know what we were fighting about, or for. I put my bag on the floor, walked over to him, stood on my tiptoes and threw my arms around his shoulders. Then I kissed him. Because … why not?
One thing I’ve learned as I’ve gotten a little older is to never bear a grudge, especially one I don’t mean. Yes, I was mad at him because he wouldn’t let us go to bed when I wanted to, instead choosing to watch the rest of the movie and falling asleep anyway (just like I said we would) and putting an end to the night we had planned. But was I mad enough to do that two hour train journey home with angry, sad and frustrated tears in my eyes? No. I wasn’t.
When I saw that tear rolling down his cheek, all of a sudden I felt a wave of emotion. He was sad and him feeling sad because of me … Well, I hated that. The fight was petty and it all started because I was a little unreasonable and then he misunderstood what I said. What was the point in us even fighting anymore? We’d sorted out the mixup.
So I kissed him.
In seconds we’d made our way across his open-plan flat and I was backed into a corner, the draining board and a countertop behind me. I was still mad at him and despite the kiss, sex was the very last thing on my mind. I just didn’t want him to cry anymore. I didn’t want to see his tears. Tears that had now dried up as his hands were tearing at my clothes, his jeans and underwear already at the floor.
“Hey, stop it. Come on, I’m still pissed at you.”
I did try to stop him. I held firm as he tried to spin me around so my ass was in front of him. I tried to hold my jeans up but he seemed to have a hundred more hands than I did. They were everywhere, pulling down my jeans at the same time as grabbing my hair and pulling my head back, exposing my neck where he started kissing and biting.
I tried with a stern voice but it didn’t come out anywhere near as stern as I’d meant it. I wasn’t pissed anymore. Just wet. Wet and half naked, legs and ass bare as he’d successfully de-clothed me from the waist down. I lost all self control at that point as he forcefully engineered his fingers around my pussy as I half-heartedly attempted to clamp my legs shut.
He fucked me really hard, lifting me up and pounding at me, my bare ass painfully banging against the cold kitchen countertop. He hurt me, I don’t think he meant to, but he sure as hell got carried away. It was hot at the same time though, so hot. Everything I’ve ever wanted angry makeup sex to be. But … he didn’t listen to me. I did say no. I did say stop it. He knew it wasn’t entirely okay because he apologised for it afterwards. I may have enjoyed myself. I may even have climaxed. But it’s okay for me not to be okay about this, right? If I’d said no and really truly meant it, would he have stopped? Would he have listened? He’s a big man, much bigger than I am. As he very much proved today, if he didn’t want to give me a choice, there would be very little I could do about it.
It just surprised me, that’s all. I’m surprised at how easily my mood (and my body) was manipulated. How one minute I was raging mad, then seriously sad, and then I was wet and there was nothing I could do about it.
My head said no but my vagina betrayed me. And Brown Eyes didn’t listen to my head.