Sober sex just isn’t in the cards for us. We’ll never have the kind of passionate polished sex that happens at 4:30pm when the sun casts a light on your body before disappearing completely. We’ll never climax at the same time before collapsing together during the weird fog of dusk. “Is it 6:00 a.m. or 6:00 p.m.? I can never tell when the sky is in-between like this and it makes me feel like I’m half-dreaming.” Our oral sex will always be sloppy but we’ll convince ourselves that it’s adventurous. That’s what you always say when it’s bad. You write it off as kinky wild sex and pray no one figures you out. No one will know that you never actually finish and you won’t tell them until it’s all done and over with, until you’ve come to your senses about this person you don’t want to have sober sex with.
We’re both lonely right now. That much is clear. We’re lost and hurting for different reasons, so we’re trying to make each other feel better by getting drunk and falling into bed. Splat. This can go on for months, you know. You can have wasted sex with someone for as long as you want. It’s the easiest kind of pill to swallow. It’s not real. It feels like someone has put novocaine all over your private parts. “This won’t hurt a bit…” you tell yourself as you let another nothing enter your everything.
Except it does. It hurts quite a bit. You don’t realize this until you wake up the next morning feeling like a bag of aching bones and see that last night’s mistake is still sleeping next to you. You couldn’t feel further from sexy right now, so you decide to kick them out of your apartment. You can do that. You can be a crazy jerk who kicks people out of your apartment because you’re hungover and you both know none of this matters as soon as the sun comes up. You don’t like to see your mistake drenched in an ungodly amount of sunlight. You want to see them in the dark, concealed in a bed of covers. You want to feel it move in and out and then leave. That’s the best part of the sex — when it’s over. You see them get out of bed and scramble for clothes. They have a nice ass. Now get out.
The next day you meet your friends for lunch and they point out all of the bruises you got from last night’s romp. You didn’t notice. You had no idea that there were marks all over your body, or that it happened like this every single time. You feign embarrassment, laugh it off and then explain to them that it was rough and kinky and WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO, YOU KNOW? This makes your friends feel vanilla and inexperienced, so they giggle nervously and move on. You think about telling them that every time you have sex with this person, you feel your body start to wilt and that these bruises are nothing to be proud of. The sex always needs to hurt because you won’t let yourself be tender with them. The sex always needs to hurt because you need to feel something.
You don’t tell them this though. It’s too early and no one has had a mimosa yet. Besides, the things you feel during sex with someone you secretly despise are too private and not fit for a rom-com brunch talk.
You wonder when it’ll stop. I guess it will when you stop wondering.