Letter to an Ex-Llover

I wonder if you’ll get laid tonight. I wonder if you’re getting laid now. I wonder about this a lot lately, since I realized you weren’t just dating this guy behind my back, you were sleeping with him as well. It’s a Friday night and I know that you’re out with him, and he’s wondering too if he’ll fuck you tonight. Maybe he thinks he’s a gentleman and he’s wondering if he’ll make love to you tonight. But you wouldn’t like that very much, would you? You want him to fuck you. You like it hard and fast, and deep You like to be pounded. You like to be nailed with a big hard cock while your lover shouts your name.

You weren’t always like that, though. Not when we started. We were both young and naïve then. We were both each other’s first. Even though I don’t trust you now, I still believe you were a virgin then. You were timid. You were shy about your naked body – were your breasts too small, was your ass too big. You were caught between fear of and curiosity about my fully erect penis. Your hands were clumsy while we had sex, as were mine. It was some time before we developed a rhythm, before we knew each others bodies, before we were comfortable with our own. We were still discovering what it was all about, what it meant, what it felt like, not just in our genitals but in our minds.

There were adventures early on. Like the time your roommate barged in. I wasn’t sure if she was going to pee in her pants or ask to join in. By the time she had finally backed out, apologizing twenty times, we couldn’t stop laughing and neither of us were in the mood. Not until later, when we heard her next door, panting, vibrator humming, did we resume our lovemaking. I always wondered if she or you reached orgasm first. But it didn’t matter – hers was an orgasm of frustration, yours of fulfillment.

Once we each had our own place, things really began to blossom. You got louder and louder, to my delight, and I got rougher and rougher, to your delight. We were no longer making love. We were fucking. We were fucking in the kitchen, in the bathroom in front of the mirror, in the living room, shades up, shades down, it didn’t matter anymore. We fantasized and think about how many men and women got off watching us fuck. We were no longer shy about our bodies, or about sex. I loved to suck your prefect tits with your beautiful ass in my hands while I fucked you, while you moaned and thrashed, while we each reached ecstasy. We were young, in love, and we were fucking each others brains out.

Sometimes I lay awake at night and I wonder sometimes what this guy looks like. What his name is. You never told me and I wonder why. Sometimes I wonder if his dick is bigger than mine, or maybe it’s smaller than mine; if, when he gives you every inch, if you scream, if it’s as tight as it was with us. I wonder if you compare us, if think about my cock while his is in you. I wonder if he accepts that you hate giving head. I wonder if, in spite of that, he eats your pussy, if he’s good at it, if you like it. I wonder if you throw your head back and release that intoxicating moan when his tongue licks your clit. Perhaps he hasn’t discovered that yet. Perhaps he never will because he’s a nice guy, but clueless in bed.

And all I’m left with is wondering. You’re fucking him now, maybe right this moment. Or maybe you’re just having sex. Maybe he hasn’t learned how to really push you into that realm where your moan and scream for what seems like hours, alternately screaming for him to come, please come, or don’t stop, please don’t stop. I’m not fucking, or having sex, with anyone yet, though I desperately feel the need. I’m still recovering from the blow, recovering from the image of some guy, some other guy holding your legs in the air and pumping his cock into you. It makes me angry, but that the same time it makes me hot. It is a burning combination of jealousy, furry, and arousal that I can neither control nor comprehend.

I sometimes imagine -- should I say fantasize? -- you lying in bed with him on top of you, you lying there eyes glazed over, not looking at him or anything in particular, wishing it was my dick, not his inside of you, my hands and mouth on your breasts, my chest, not his you are caressing. Of course, maybe the same thing will happen to me. Maybe the next girl I try to fuck will say stop, please, you’re hurting me, don’t do it so hard. And maybe then I’ll wish it was you I was fucking, that I could really fuck you, fuck you hard until you screamed, until I came deep, deep inside of you, pounding you with every pulse of cum. Maybe neither of us will ever find sexual bliss again. But if so, at least I feel no blame. It was you who sought the easy score, the cock so close to you while I was far away. Maybe it’s good and you like it, and maybe it’s just convenient and you don’t. I guess I’ll never know.

It makes me laugh to think when we first started you worried about no longer being a virgin, about how maybe no one would want you if they knew we’d slept together. I told you that wasn’t true, that you were being old fashioned. It pains me now to realize how right I was. I’m sure you found it useful to know how to spread your legs, to accept a man’s dick into your waiting sex, to know what you like, to know what he might like. You know how to pull his head down to your breasts so he would suck on them while he fucks you, because you know you like this, you know it makes you scream. And you know when you scream, he’ll pump hard, fuck you hard. The way you like it. The way I used to do it to you.