Orange Juice

Not every fight with my husband ended with violence, and I think that made it really difficult for me. I suppose I had an image of an abusive or violent relationship, and it didn’t include the good times, the laughing times, the fucking-all-night-long times. But my marriage did have those times. The good was so good that it felt like true magic… but the bad was so bad that it genuinely felt like running through fire.

One night, we were having a blazing row that started in the living room, then moved into the hallway, then the kitchen. I don’t remember what the argument was about or how it started, but I do remember being really angry at him for something. I’d just poured myself a plastic tumbler of orange juice when he said something that tipped me over the edge, and I hurled the tumbler right at him. It bounced off his chest, then spilled down the front of his shorts, all over the floor, and even a little over me.

I paused, waiting for his reaction, instantly regretting what I’d done. It was such a stupid decision, and I could’ve slapped myself for it. I clamped my eyes tightly shut and hoped that whatever happened next, happened quickly. I could sense/hear that he’d moved towards me… but he didn’t push me, or throw me to the floor, or put his hands around my throat; instead, he gently nudged me backwards until my back was against the floor-to-ceiling kitchen cabinets… and kissed me. Softly, but passionately. Not what I’d expected him to do at all.

He tugged on the bottom of my sweater, and we were both naked less than sixty seconds after that. Still kissing, still passionate, still soft. It was so disorientating after the argument we’d just had. Jarring almost. I had thrown orange juice at him… so, why wasn’t he mad?

Whisky pushed my body into the cold cupboard as he fucked me, offsetting that with I-love-yous breathed into my ear from behind. It wasn’t aggressive; just… hot. Like he couldn’t get close enough to me, or deep enough inside me. He made me feel wanted, and desired, and loved. Maybe that’s why it has stuck in my mind for all this years, why I can still see that night so clearly in my mind? It was in such contrast to most of the rest of our relationship. I kept waiting for anger that didn’t materialise, teetering between arousal and anxiety, not knowing which way was up, down, or anywhere in between; but he was the softest, sweetest, most passionate boy that there ever was.

A head-fuck of a fuck, for sure.

It didn’t last long. Five minutes, perhaps? I didn’t come, but that made it no less… something. Memorable? Messy? He held me in place against the cupboard for a minute or two, even though I could feel his legs shaking. We even laughed and joked for a little while.

“You can fucking clean that up,” he said, pointing to the now sticky orange juice on the floor, as soon as we had untangled ourselves from each other.

And there we were, right back to normal again. It was nice while it lasted, I suppose.

The next blog post in the dating timeline is this one: The Absolute Best Times.