Sunday, June 26, 2005

Don’t Go There

When I ended our affair, he asked for it – not me. I didn’t want to hear it. “Can we still be friends …?” I just hated hearing it. He was asking for trouble. Not to be a brat, but I knew I’d find a new lover faster and he didn’t need to know about it. It would only hurt his feelings.

“Can’t we still be friends?” he kept at it. Because, we’re all grown-ups here, aren’t we? Yeah, right, sure.

Well, he thinks he is, but I know I’m not. I don’t want to think about him kissing some other woman. I don’t want think about him undressing her the way he expertly undressed me.

I don’t want to wince thinking of her enjoying that perfect pleasure he showed me, that moment, he was so good at that, my knees strongly but pointlessly clamped together, pretending I didn’t want it, him prying my legs open slowly, with sweet whispers, a slow path of kisses, persuasive and seductive, under my swirly girl skirt, me acting the reluctant virgin, but having already removed my panties mid-dinner, so as he approached, tossing up and back one layer of summer skirt, then white silk below this – a permission slip of sorts -- silky slip to invite him, bead of sweat, path of wetness, the obvious yes of thonglessness on a hot summer night, and now it was getting serious and he was gaining speed and getting a firm grip around my waist, he was great at grabbing buttocks, a matter of positioning my vertebrae and then that way he had of forcing entry unapologetically just when I was wanting him so much, a shutter of his largeness entering me, the breathtaking hardness filling me up so pleasantly, the perfect homecoming. I don’t forget easily. I don’t forget anything. I didn’t expect to forget him any time soon.


I wouldn’t talk to him or call him but he persisted and called me and talked to me about being “friends” and it dawned on me … he didn’t even mean what most guys meant, you know, that messy “friends” with benefits b.s., occasional slip-up fuck-by-accident-late-some-night-after–too-much-wine ex-lovers type friends. He really meant “friends” which I found stunningly innocent and crazy. Was it a fatherly type, “I want to keep an eye on you, protect you” thing? Go figure. I still don’t quite get it.

But in the end, I yielded to him, something I always liked to do, but unlike before, not at all sure of the outcome. I gave in to “friends” and we continue and there well may be an upside. I’m waiting, I’m watching, but I’m never going to tell him about any other men. I won’t go there.