Talking Bodies is a great song to fuck to, but it really is a bad one to cry to. Especially when you're laying on the bed after your sneaky link told you that he doesn't feel like fucking. mind you, this is the third time it’s happened. As much as he tried to assure me with a warm smile and his giant arms for cuddling, I still couldn’t help shedding more than a couple tears. 

Why didn’t he want me?

Logically, I understood what it meant. He had been stressed for a while now and even though I had been too, he got high and gamed to escape while I fucked. So you see how our situation was tricky. 

I didn’t have to stay with him. After all, we weren’t in a committed relationship and didn’t care for each other besides the fact that we were both attractive, had a modicum of sense and loved to fuck. 

And God I loved to fuck him. He had a cock built by gods; enough to send me to places I didn’t even know existed. I could never tell him how it felt to have myself explored by him, because I would stutter and he would think the same thing you are right now; that I’m in love. 

Love? No. Dickmatized? Yes. Now I was a logical girlie. There usually was an inflow of delulu here and there but I mostly kept my head screwed on right and walked in a straight line. It always made me wonder how dick could turn me into the person I was when I was with him. 

And I enjoyed who I was. He did too, or used to. I didn’t know anymore. And feeling unsure was not my forte. 

As an overthinker, I knew where my brain could take me and I let him know in the beginning that we could be completely honest with each other. So why was it that when he was honest with me, I always wanted to just kill myself?

It hurt the most because I had looked at myself in the mirror before I came. I put on a super sexy underwear set that I had just gotten and wore a see-through dress. My sex appeal was through the roof and I could see it in how he looked at me that he wanted to bury his head between my thighs and make my legs shake till the high heaven. 

And he did that. One thing I liked about this guy was his promise-keeping. But he was a little too literal. He brought me close a few times, fingers even sliding into the slippery wetness of my pussy and curling upward so that I lost balance and fell back on the pillow under my waist. Then he used his mouth again, dragging me to the edge of release and then taking me much farther back than I had been before. 

I waited patiently for him to fuck me again, my breathing automatically increasing as I watched him stroke himself to the sight of my sopping center. No shame in desire!

When he entered me, I lost my footing even though I was lying down. He went a little too deep and hit my cervix and when I yelped he apologized, leaning down to kiss my forehead. This gentle act reminded me that this guy was a good actor, like me. He liked the art of sex and being a drama kid did him a lot of favors in the acting sector. 

I was a common pretender, faking my way through life and everything. but it was nice when I didn't have to act with him. He didn't give a shit. 

"Fuck, God yes." I panted, forgetting to close my mouth and letting him kiss me senseless. Maybe the weed was giving it so much intensity because there was no reason why penis was frying my brain. 

I was close, so close I could see the beginning of constellations. Then he pulled out and stared at me with an impending yawn as he asked me to get on my knees. 

Was he going for the "I don't give a shit about you" roleplay? if he was, a heads-up would have been really nice. But I was ashamed to admit that I was that horny for this guy that his countenance affected me, so I got on my knees and held on to my arch for as long as I could. 

He got really close, panted, grunted a few things in my ears and then pulled out and came all over the floor, groaning like he was in pain. 

I lay there for a sec, expecting him to return for another go, when he sighed tiredly and announced that the mood to fuck me had disappeared. 

I couldn't believe my ears, and disappointment washed through me. I could see that he was apologetic and willing to continue if I really wanted it, but I didn't have the strength to feel worse than I already did before all of this. 

As I pulled my clothes on, my brain continued to stress me out, traveling to places of self-doubt that I didn't even know I could muster up. Was I getting fat and unattractive? Was there something wrong with the way I was doing things? Did I need to switch things up? What the entire fuck was it that made the only guy I had ever fucked and truly enjoyed it with decide that I was suddenly either too much or not enough? 

What the fuck was my luck?