Perfection


He was perfection.

I saw him across that crowded bar. The walls were paneled in a light wood, tinted darker now from the years of cigarette smoke that coated them. He was someone I would never have bothered to look twice at. Too young, too pretty and yet when our eyes locked, the air between us crackled with electricity.

Something so strong passed between us in that moment. Everything around us disappeared and all I could see was him. Time had stopped and we were alone in that crowded bar, among all its patrons and their cigarettes and drinks. When he approached me and we began talking, I knew that I never wanted to stop talking to him. A bond formed in those short hours we spent, making mostly small talk, that would withstand much more than either of us ever thought possible.

And so, it began. Our greatest fantasies and our worst nightmares came true.

In spite of the intense sexual fire between us, the first touch of his tongue to mine was shy, sweet and yet still, pure heat. His hands explored my body, as if he already knew exactly what it needed. I bet he still does. I knew him as well. I still know exactly what to say, how to touch him, how to make his body ache for mine. I became his, without him ever having to ask, and he became mine.

Hours upon hours of mindless, earth shattering sex. His naked hips pressed against my backside as he bent me over my desk. Hands, rough from his work, sent tingles along my spine as he dragged them down my back. He would tangle his fingers in my hair and tug my head back as he pounded himself into me. “Such a dirty bitch,” he’d say and my body would sing in release for him. Always for him. Later he would settle between my thighs, poised above me. Our bodies were slick with sweat, a consistent result of our love making. I would wrap my legs around his hips, holding him close to me, my arms encircling his neck. “I love you,” I would whisper. A kiss, eyes wide open, staring into each other’s souls and drinking in the depths of bliss that hid there. Those slow moments of passion that lingered between us branded our hearts as he entered me. Time would stop.

With so much passion and intensity of course, there was always the fighting. A perfect mixture and it seemed we reveled in it, soaking ourselves in a desperate pool of jealousy and retaliation. Anger boiled to the surface in place of understanding and the gloves would go on. Round after round we would battle. It became our form of foreplay. After all, what’s better than make-up sex? Fucking and fighting. The best of both worlds, it was unavoidable. The fight would happen and my body would burn for him. He told me once that it was like that for him too. That I made him beyond angry, hateful even, and in those moments, all he wanted to do was fuck me. Sometimes he would. Sometimes he wouldn’t and it was the latter that would leave me with an ache in my chest that equaled the ache between my thighs. Madness.

Naturally, living together proved disastrous, another failed attempt to “make it work.” We fooled ourselves into thinking that living together would somehow make it better, easier. I’d push, as was always my nature to do, for more. Always more. “Pay attention to me!” Or “Where have you been? You’re never home with me. Fucking be here. Be with me. Choose me or fucking leave!” I would scream. He would dig his heels in and refuse to fight, which would make me crazier. Then he would just walk away. Leaving me there in my misery and seething hatred, only to come back because he couldn’t stay away. That damned connection, like some invisible tether drawing us back together. Always there. Always. As if we had no choice. No say at all in the matter.

Baffling. We had created such a warped and beautiful form of love. I loved him with all my heart, every part of my soul, and he loved me. He told me every day that he did. “Baby, I love you. End of story,” he would say. He never thought I believed him. I was so sure that we would find a way to sort through it all. To make sense of this thing between us that just wouldn’t go away, that wouldn’t die. Soon enough though, I watched him walk out the door for what would be the last time. He turned a blind eye to my tears and a deaf ear to my pleas to stay. The white paneled door of our apartment slowly closed. Its audible click rang in my ears and vibrated through my body to the soles of my feet.

Steeped in heartache and misery, I let him go, I had to. I refused to beg him to stay. Blessed anger reared its ugly head. Fuck him. Fuck the- I love you’s. Fuck the promises made. Fuck everything. I’ll live with it. All the pain, all the misery, all the memories and the God forsaken fucking ache!

Time is supposed to heal all wounds, but in my case it did not. On occasion I’m forced to see him. Our paths cross and he pretends as though he doesn’t see me. I pretend, too. I quietly watch him play at that same bar where we met. The same walls, paneled in a light wood, tinted even darker now from the years of cigarette smoke that coat them. Who is the next one in line for him? Who is the next on his list? It doesn’t really matter, they aren’t me. I realized long ago that there is no one like him. Try as we may, what we had can never be replaced, nor repaired.

In truth, he disgusts me now. When I see him flirting with another woman, or see that look he gets in his eyes that is supposed to only be for me, my anger rises and bile burns the back of my throat. That ever present heat begins between my thighs, again. Thunder booms in my chest and I am ready to tear into him. Tell him to go fuck himself and whatever floosy he’s slipping his dick into tonight. Then lightning flashes and all I want to do is fuck him, feel him fuck me like he used to. I have often wondered if he still feels like that, too. I think he would rather die before he ever admits he does.

At home, alone in my bed, my insane fantasy begins. I see it, ever so clearly, as I slip my fingers between my slick folds. If he ever dared to approach me, what would I do? My body aches at the prospect as I probe my channel, then rub my clit. I would slap his face. Yes. I’d revel in seeing the fire erupt in his eyes, knowing that his cock just got hard, for me. Always for me. I’d take his hand then, and lead him to my car, or my bed. Fuck, even a dark corner would do.

The pain would be worth it. Touching him again, feeling him slide inside me. Always had been, hadn’t it? It would destroy my very soul and yet, I’d fuck him until he screamed my name and…

For us. Always for us. We would start our madness all over again.

Because we were perfection.

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