Blue Balls Of The Soul

I should've known the second Holden Daniel Woodford texted me after three long months of nothing that I'd regret it.

He hadn't responded to my "What the fuck is wrong with you?!" drunk text from the last time he went full Houdini on me. Not seriously, at least. Not to actually see me.

But this time? He said he'd be in Seattle--Barracuda vs. Thunderbirds. I knew he wouldn't miss a game, so my hopeful, dumbass self already had tickets. He's a big Bay Area boy, big Barracuda fan, and an even bigger walking heartbreak in a ball cap.

He might've broken my heart, but my broken Olympic hockey dream was soothed when he introduced me to ice hockey. Going to 'Cuda games was something I never let go of through our on-again, off-again love affair. I have a giant Barracuda tattoo, for god's sake.

Here we were--live in fucking stereo--him suggesting drinks after the game. He said it casually, like he didn't already live in the haunted corners of my mind and every wet dream. Like we hadn't played this game before. Like I didn't already know how it ends.

He even apologized. It felt different. Real--almost. This was my chance.

The plan: Get laid. Get over him. Then...

Two days before the game, he ghosted. Classic Holden.

I still went. With my dad.

At this point, I didn't even know if he was still going to be in town. I was trying to convince myself that something came up--maybe he had to cancel his trip, maybe he just didn't have the heart to tell me.

But then, like some cruel joke, after the game, I saw him standing just outside the arena. He looked like memories, mistakes, and regret stitched into one.

I pointed him out.

"OMG! Dad, you'll never guess who's standing over there!"

I said it casually, like I wasn't searching every face in the crowd for him. Hoping. Wishing.

My dad took one look and said,

"In no world should you go say hi to that man."

So I didn't.

I laughed it off and pretended like I wasn't obsessively undressing him with my eyes. Like some part of me wasn't hoping that he'd see me and come over.

I composed myself. My dad suggested the best plan:

"Let's stop somewhere for a late-night happy hour. After all, we have a victory to celebrate!"

But as we were walking toward the restaurant, I heard it.

My name--"Mar"--called out. Sharp and soft at the same time. I thought I was hallucinating. I'd had a few drinks, sure--but not that many. Not yet.

Then I heard it again. This time from Holden himself, talking to his family about me, like I wasn't walking distance away. From what I caught, I knew they hadn't seen me.

I didn't turn around.

I didn't get closure.

I didn't even get the relief of a dramatic exit.

I got left raw, horny, and haunted.

And drunk... of course.

This was supposed to be the night I finally fucked him out of my system.

Instead, I went home--messy drunk, with blue balls of the soul--just to finish the night off with my favorite toy and visions of him.

I should've gone to bed. I should've eaten something, drank water, journaled like a sane person--like Steven, my therapist, keeps begging me to do. Instead, I stripped off my clothes the second I got through my bedroom door, almost tripping over a pile of cat toys in the process, and fell face-first into the same bad idea I always do: imagining him.

Imagining Holden on top of me, his hands on every inch of my skin. His warm breath on my neck, his tongue sliding down my stomach, leaving kisses all the way to my pelvis.

As I pulled off my socks and shoes in one go, I turned on the shower, cranked it as hot as it goes. While it heated up, I reached into my drawer of goodies, already feeling a little unimpressed by the lineup. Drunk me decided we're going old school tonight--flesh on flesh. I did grab my go-to purple jelly dildo, though. Just in case. Total self-care moment, right?

It's got a suction cup--because what good dildo doesn't--and it's supposedly perfectly average. Not that I would know.

I stepped into the shower and positioned myself under the stream, letting the heat soak into my skin as I bent forward slightly. I secured the toy to the tiled wall, lining it up just right while I traced soft, teasing circles around my clit, fingers slick from the water and want. I ran them up and down my entrance, spreading the wet everywhere. The only thing going through my mind was his voice. That low, sleepy drawl whispering my name--"Mar." God, have I imagined him saying that into my ear.

I imagined him in the shower with me, tangled in steam and need. His hands gripping my hips. His mouth on my neck. His body pressed against mine like he never wanted to let go.

I closed my eyes and let the fantasy devour me--his voice rough and teasing, whispering all the filthy things I've only ever heard in my head. I pictured those perfect hands holding me still as he slid into me--slow, mean, possessive. As the thoughts spun deeper, I leaned back onto the dildo, gasping at the stretch, at how real it all felt in my mind.

I wanted him to ruin me. To beg. To lose control. I wanted him to feel what I felt every time he disappeared. Every time he showed up in my city like a ghost in flesh. Every time he broke promises with that crooked, sorry-not-sorry smile.

My hips started moving faster--driven by hunger. By spite. By something deep and aching I couldn't name.

I moaned--low, desperate, wrecked. My thighs started to shake. I kept going, chasing the high like it could silence the ache in my chest. Like maybe, just maybe, if I came hard enough, I could exorcise him from my body.

I came with his name on my lips and tears in my eyes.

Not soft. Not sweet.

It hit me like a freight train--hot, sharp, cathartic. A little bit painful. The best orgasms always are.

When it was over, I stood there under the water, forehead pressed to the tile, breathing hard, heart pounding out a rhythm that sounded an awful lot like never again, never again, never again.

I knew I didn't mean it.