Today I decided upon another breakup film. I’m slowly working my way through the list I should have gone through when Big Love and I first broke up. This is where we’re at:
Sunday – 500 Days of Summer [How Long Does It Take to Get over Someone?]
Monday – The Holiday
Tuesday – Closer
Why am I doing this? Because I can. Because I have to. Because I’m driving myself crazy with my pathetic obsession with Big Love and our big breakup, and I am determined to get him out of my system once and for all. It’s been eight and a half months. This has got to stop. Now.
I’d planned to spend two weeks making my way through a list of breakup films that the internet and my followers recommended. I need to cry. Cry myself to sleep, until I can’t cry anymore. I need to get him out of my system. I don’t think the movies are probably going to help too much, but they’ll at least distract me and give me something new to cry about for a while. There’s a few on there I haven’t yet seen too, so it gave me an excuse to finally get around to watching them.
I think I made some breakup progress today, so maybe the movies ARE working? I threw away all of the cards he’d given me. Birthday cards, Valentine’s Day cards, Christmas cards, anniversary cards. I threw them all out. I didn’t quite make it to the letters, but that’s next on my to-purge list. I couldn’t face the letters today. I knew I’d want to read them before I threw them in the trash, and I wasn’t so sure they’d even make it to the trash. What would be the point in upsetting myself further? Baby steps and all that.
Anyway, my wallowing-in-self-pity breakup plan was scuppered last night, when One Ball decided to send me a text and ask if he could come over. I thought about it for a while. He’s cute and all, but was I in the mood for that? Him? No, I wasn’t.
But I was in the mood to get well n’ truly fucked.
I used him. I didn’t want his company. Or conversation. Or even a hug. I just wanted him to come around and fuck me. Nothing more than a toy, but with a pulse. Within minutes of him turning up, we were kissing intensely, and it only took a few minutes more for us to peel off each other’s clothes. I’m not sure if it was because it was just sex in my head, or if he does something to me, but I felt more confident than I have done in a really long time. Sex with the lights on didn’t terrify me. Taking the lead didn’t terrify me. Being in control didn’t terrify me. In fact, I relish it, all of the things I once used to hate.
Our sex was frenzied and rough, his hands first groping down to finger-fuck me to climax, twice. It’s been a while since my last sexual escapade, so it wouldn’t have taken much to get me there, but it felt amazing to let myself go all over his hands. I just needed release.
But that’s when he took charge of things, first trying to go down on me, then attempting to tie me up with the ropes that were still attached to my bed and not quite as well-hidden as I’d have liked. He was persistent; he wanted to play with me, to tease me, to make it last. But all I wanted was for him to turn me around, bend me over, and then fuck me, hard, from behind.
We met in the middle. He held his hands above my head while he teased me for a while, telling me that he was in charge and asking me to repeat his words. every time I tried to reach my head up to kiss him, he pulled away. He’d let me get close. So close. Close enough to feel his breath. But as soon as I got just close enough for my lips to make real contact with his, he’d pull away again. He did the same with his cock, too. Pushing it tantalisingly close to where I wanted him to be, but not all the way in. Barely even the tip. He was millimetres away from entering me properly, and it felt like he held that position forever. And when I got close to begging him to fuck me, he thrust himself into me. One hard, violent thrust that hurt a little but felt really good at the same time.
From there, things turned into a blur. He fucked me hard before rolling me over, and then I fucked him until I came really, really hard. He had me over the banister of my stairs, out the skylight window in my attic conversion bedroom, and even across the floor, where not even the carpet burns were enough to stop us.
We fucked for an age and he didn’t come, so we decided to stop for a breather. I had a smoke and he had a drink, and then we had a little conversation.
“I stopped myself from coming. I almost came about a minute into fucking you. Now I’m struggling to get back there,” he said.
“It’s okay, you don’t need to apologise! But why? You could’ve come. I already came, remember?” I responded.
I didn’t understand why he’d done that. As far as I’m concerned, if I’ve come, you can come. I don’t mind. I don’t need a marathon session, and I didn’t need a marathon session that night. I just needed to be fucked. I needed someone to put their arms around me, grab me, forcefully ram themselves into me, and maybe throw a few passionate kisses in for good measure. I didn’t care about anything else. Maybe I cared about him not coming a bit, but I didn’t invite him over for that.
He was embarrassed after that, and I was a little, too. For a while, we just spooned on my bed, cuddling, feeling skin on skin … until I did that little butt nudge that makes him hard. And Houston, we did NOT have a problem. He came within a few minutes during our second attempt.
We just lay there for a while, letting our breathing subside, bodies intertwined. He kissed my neck and I held his hand. He’s into me, I can tell. So how could I tell him that our fuck session was just that: just a fuck session. Fucking amazing sex, I’ll give him that, but just sex still the same. There was no feeling, just pure unadulterated passion. His back had my scratch marks everywhere. There was a bite mark on his chest. His shoulders had blood where I’d dragged my nails across them, and his hair was disheveled from me tugging at it with fury. It looked like he’d been in a war zone. A delicious war zone.
I needed to get some Big Love tension out and One Ball was my punch bag. I feel bad for him. He doesn’t know what’s going on in my head, or how much I’m using him. He’s the guy I can have angry, passionate sex with, but he thinks I’m the girl he’s going to fall for. He’s already told me how much he’s into me and how much that scares him. I’m going to break his heart, I know I am. And if I’m brutally honest, I’m not really that bothered. I didn’t realise I had this pit of anger inside me, and the only way that I seem to be able to get it out, without hurting myself, is by hurting someone else. For the moment, it’s during vicious sex, but after that….? Who knows?
Could I eventually learn to turn this great sex into something more? There are other factors behind me not wanting more with him: the fact he has kids, the fact he doesn’t want more kids and I haven’t had any yet, he’s only here on a course and not permanently … I should tell him that we have no chance of going any further, but I can’t do it. Nor do I want to. What kind of a person have I become? I can tell you what I have become.
I don’t think I’m looking for a relationship right now. That’s why My Mr. Grey and I aren’t in a real relationship yet: I’m not ready. That’s why The Guy I Couldn’t Get Rid Of wasn’t enough for me, and The Lapdog before him.
So what do I want?