My Boyfriend (Literally) Ghosted After We Had Sex For The First Time

 Victoria Zeoli
Victoria Zeoli

Everything was going good. Great, even. Felix’s fingers were clutching my hips, his lips gliding against my neck as tiny moans fluttered from my mouth. I was still throbbing from my second orgasm. This guy was a real keeper.

“Now. I need you inside of me now,” I said, not caring if I sounded like a high school dropout filming her first porno. Guys eat that crap right up. And since he’d just ate me right up, I figured losing a little of my dignity was the least I could do. He slid down his boxers, pushed himself inside of me, and—

And he was gone.

Not climbed-out-a-window-because-the-sex-was-over-and-he-wasn’t-the-type-to-make-breakfast-in-the-morning gone. Actually, physically gone. Like a magician who had thrown a sheet over his head and vanished with a blast of smoke. Except there was no blanket. No smoke. Before I blinked, he was there. After I blinked, he wasn’t.

I propped myself up onto my elbows, looking down at my body, bare except for the tattoos climbing up my ribcage. To my left, beer bottles and a bong littered the wooden nightstand.

Did I…? No. I couldn’t have just dreamt up talking to him at the bar (because he had an earring and a beard, my two weaknesses), and swapping stories about our shitty siblings (because my sister had virtually disowned me since I slept with her husband), before dragging him back to my shabby apartment for more drinks. Or maybe I blacked out right before we had sex and was just now waking up, hours later, with no memory of it? God, I hoped not. I didn’t want to go back to rehab.

But when I climbed onto my knees and peeked over the ledge of the bed, there was a condom packet and a pair of boxers sprawled on the floor. Evidence that he was there. Evidence that I might’ve needed some—okay, a lot of—psychiatric help.

Damn it.

Without giving myself time for second guesses, I drove right over to my big sister’s house. Probably not the best idea with so much alcohol in my system. If a cop pulled me over, I would’ve been tossed in a cell. But hey, that’s a type of rehab in itself.

“Let me stay here tonight, will you?” I asked when she swung open the door, avoiding her eyes and looking straight at the black cat on her pajama shirt. How she was the older one, I’d never understand. Her eyes rolled, but she opened the door wider.

“Why are you here?”

“I need to go back to rehab. I’m here so can drag me there in the morning when I come to my senses.”

She blinked, long and slow. She should’ve just stuck up her middle finger. It meant the same thing.

“Well, then. I guess I’ll show myself to my room,” I said, making my way toward the couch I hadn’t slept on since the time I got so wasted I couldn’t find my way back to my own apartment.

But when I plopped onto it, something dug into my back, like a lump of coal. I reached into the cushions, hoping to find a wad of cash or at least a few stray Cheetos, but I came up with a drawstring bag, the size of my fist. Maybe it was wrong of me, but I opened it up. No hesitation. Didn’t feel bad about it either once I saw the contents.

“When the hell did you swipe my watch?” I yelled into the kitchen, where she was rummaging in the fridge.

“I thought I lost it. What have you been doing with—”

Then I saw the rest of it, hidden beneath the watch I’d plucked out. Random herbs squished together with tiny white… bones?

“It’s called a hex bag,” she said, walking back in with another baggie dangling from her wrist.

“I needed to place a personal belonging of yours inside to cast a spell on you. That one was to make your men disappear.”

I launched myself off of the couch. I could’ve done the logical thing and told her she was a liar, that magic didn’t exist, but I didn’t want to waste time debating when I could be yelling. Besides, I’d accept any explanation that didn’t involve me being a raging alcoholic.

“You made me think I needed rehab,” I said, shoving her in the shoulder.

“What the hell? Could you be any more of a bitch?”

Her chalky lips pursed. “I mean, you are drinking again when you shouldn’t be. But that’s besides the point. You slept with my husband. Ex-husband, now. So I made it so you couldn’t sleep with anyone ever again.”

“Wait, so it’s going to happen with every guy I bang?”

She just smiled, her grin as large as the cartoon cat on her damn shirt.

Not being one to let my big sister win, I said, “Well, he still made me orgasm. Twice. So really penetration wouldn’t have mattered. Think things through next time. You’re supposed to be the smart child.”

“That was only the practice spell,” she said, raising the other bag on her wrist. “This one will do a little more damage.”

“Right, well, you can be a psycho on your own time. I’m out,” I said, slipping my watch onto my arm.

“I’m keeping this, by the way.”

I headed for the door, ready to make a beeline for the nearest bar, as my big sister spoke gibberish over her bag. Some kind of Latin maybe. Or bullshit meant to scare me.

When I reached for the doorknob, promising myself I’d never set foot in her apartment again, she must’ve finished the incantation, because her voice stopped.

And so did my heart. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

Holly is the author of Severe(d): A Creepy Poetry Collection.

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