I Just Took It
A few nights after The Fireman found out that I’d cheated on him with Goth Boy, he arrived on my doorstep in the middle of the night, drunk out of his mind. He almost woke up the whole street as he banged on the door and yelled at the top of his lungs. One of the neighbours called the police on him, and he eventually left. I’m guessing he spent the night in the drunk tank; though, I never asked.
A few days later, he did the same thing again, begging and pleading to talk to me, drunk out of his mind. There were tears streaming down his cheeks, and they almost broke my heart.
Look at what I had done to him.
Naively and stupidly, I let him in, wiping his tears away as I did.
I took him by the hand and led him to my bedroom, where I’d hoped he would fall into a drunken slumber. He didn’t. Instead, he pushed me over so that I was on the wall side of the bed, then climbed in behind me, nudging close, holding me tightly. Too tightly.
He kissed the back of my head as he half-whispered, half-cried:
How could you do that to me, you whore?
Slut.
Does he fuck you better than I do?
Whore.
Tell me why he’s better than me.
Fucking whore.
You were mine, not his.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered back, tears now streaming down my cheeks. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” And I really, truly was. I kept apologising as he pulled my pyjama bottoms down, and I was still apologising when he yanked my underwear off. “I’m sorry. Let’s talk first. Let’s talk.”
He didn’t want to talk. He’d forgive me if I didn’t stop him. Did I want him to wake the whole street up again?
So, I just took it.
I let him climb on top of me without further argument, and I stuffed my face into his shoulder to muffle my pain. I thought he was going to split me in half, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t care. He just kept going, ramming into me as hard as he could, for what felt like forever, whispering his little mantra all the while.
Fucking slut. Fucking whore.
I don’t know how long it lasted. It could’ve been ten minutes or ten hours.
Once he was done, fully satiated, he wiped his dick on my duvet cover, dressed, then left. He didn’t say a single word to me. He didn’t even look at me. I don’t think he even knew that I was silently crying as he walked out.
He made me bleed that night. There were little spots on the tissue paper for a day or so afterwards, so I assumed that he’d torn me somewhere. I never told him that, though.
I just took it.
The next blog post in the dating time is this one: Fuck Me On the Pool Table.
If you’d like to skip the sex (and sex fail) stuff, you can go straight to this one instead: That Fucking Pager.
Thanks so much for reading my little dating and sex blog today! 🖤
You can read all about The Fireman, from start to finish, right here.
If you’re in the market for something else to read, why not take a peek here:
