How To Have Sex With Me For The Last Time
Tell me you love me, even if you don’t. Chances are you don’t. This is why it’s the last time. Because you don’t love me anymore and can’t bear to pretend otherwise. That’s okay. That’s fine. Whatever. Just get to work.
The last few times we had sex were terrible. I knew you were falling out of love with me with every single thrust, so I’m owed this. I’m owed one last amazing f–k. I deserve it. I deserve to be lied to. Give it to me.
Don’t play music. That’s too cheap. That’s an easy way out and this isn’t supposed to easy. This will be the hardest sex you’ve ever had. I want to hear every moan, every groan, every labored exhale. I want to hear the unflattering “smack, smack” sound of your body going into mine, the sound we all abhor during sex and pretend not to hear.
This is your parting gift to me. If you’re going to leave me, you have to f–k me one last time. I didn’t make the rules. That’s just the way it works. Let me have your body one more time before it gets taken away from me forever. It’s only fair. It’s only right.
Hold me tight. No, tighter. I want to be squeezed to the point where my bones are practically crushed. You’re not doing it tight enough. Once more, with feeling. And don’t you dare let go until I say so.
After this, you’ll be gone and I won’t know when I’m having sex next. It could be months. It could be years. So please perform to the best of your ability. I’ve had guaranteed sex for so long now. I don’t know how I’ll ever live without it. (Also, I can’t believe you’re taking sex away from me. That’s like the rudest thing anyone could ever do to me. You’re a bad man.)
When the sex starts to get really intense, hold my hand and don’t freak out when you see my eyes start to well up with tears. I’m not actually going to cry, you idiot. And even if I did, you can’t say anything because we’ve been together long enough for that stuff not to matter. (Theoretically.)
I just, I still love you and when you’re inside me, I love you even more. It, of course, makes me feel weak and pathetic but at a certain point, I don’t even care. I’m just interested in squeezing you for every last drop. If you think you have any ounce of love left for me, give it to me now. I’ll take it.
Kiss my neck. Nibble my ears. Treat my dick like it’s the best thing you’ve ever seen. I want to just lay there for a bit. I want to be a lazy lover and you can’t say crap about it.
When you cum, don’t leave. So many people leave after they cum, I don’t even know why they even bother calling it “cumming” in the first place. It’s inaccurate. They should rename it “leaving in a sec.”
Stay with me. Make me feel warm. Still kiss me. Still rub up against me. Don’t say anything though. Don’t ruin it with your words. Just convey how much you respect and care about me with your body. Then, when I’m lulled to sleep, leave. Leave and don’t come back. Don’t answer my calls or texts. Just let me get rid of you completely. Do me that one favor. (Well, on top of this one.)
The last time we have sex will be the thing that sticks out most in my mind. You’re leaving your mark on me and you’re giving me something to hold on to you when the nights are grey and I feel the void next to my body.
You’re giving me something I wish I could forget.
A | A | A
U.S., NATO, and Russian saber rattling is about to reach a deafening volume.
Time waits for no man, but when you are nineteen, perhaps it pauses for just a second.
A fast and gracious tradition has developed among many of the seriously successful players in the entrepreneurial writers’ camp.
There is a saying that goes something like “newbies know the rules, but veterans know the exceptions.”