The phone rings for the third time this evening. I know who it is – Gavin, my ex. He's already called twice since I got in from work. He's been dumped by his latest girlfriend and needs consolation. In the two and a half years since we lived together, he's now had four girls break off with him. Each time he is devastated and rings me straight away. Maybe he figures that because I dumped him, I must know the reason why he can't maintain a relationship. Actually, I do (although I tell him I don't) – he's overbearing and controlling and the kind of women he chases don't put up with it for long.
I pick up the phone and, without even saying hello, he starts in about how he can't understand it, didn't see it coming, how wrecked he is, blah blah blah. I put the phone down while I light a cigarette, then pick it up again. Gavin is still in mid-stream, his voice a self-pitying whine. I smoke and listen and, when my ciggy is finished, I say some soothing words in preparation for hanging up. Gavin is oblivious and rattles on about how he won't be able to sleep and, come Monday, won't know if he'll be able to go to work in case he sees her in the corridor, blah blah blah.
I am about to interrupt when he asks if he can come over. He feels like a drink but doesn't want to drink alone. I tell him he should meet his mates down the pub – that's where he usually does his drinking. Nah, he says, it's not something he can talk to the guys about (yeah, I think, those drinking sessions are only for boasting about conquests– no guy wants confess to his mates that he's been dumped).
I tell him I'm tired and just want to finish watching a video then go to bed. What video, he asks. I think fast and tell him 'Beaches'. This makes him pause. He can't stand weepy chick flicks. But his need for solace is too great and he says he'll pick up something to drink and be over in a few minutes, ringing off before I can object.
Shit! I sit and think for a few moments. Well, I'm not going to change or tidy up, and after one drink I'll say I'm off to bed and sending him on his way. But after a couple of minutes I get up and brush my hair and change my slippers for shoes. But those are the only concessions I make - other than taking an empty coffee cup into the kitchen and putting away the dinner dishes.
Gavin is all wounded male ego. He has a bottle of Irish Cream and pours us wine glasses full. It's a while since I've seen him and I have to admit that despite the broken heart, he is looking good. His hair is as dark and floppy as ever, the crinkles round his eyes are there, and his big smiling mouth is as smiling as ever, though it rarely shuts as he gas-bags on.
I'm barely paying attention, just sipping and enjoying the liqueur. But he demands my involvement. I reach for my cigarettes and Gavin surprises me by picking up the lighter and holding the flame. He doesn't like me smoking and usually makes a face when I light up.
I blow smoke upwards and tell him thanks. He smiles and says how good it is talking to me, how I always understand, how he's always relied on my sympathy, how it reminds him how dumb he was to let me go, how even now he often thinks how good things were between us – especially physically.
He's right, at least about the physical part, and I reflect a moment on the good sex that has been missing from my life these last couple of years. Gavin sits closer and has my free hand between his as he tells me I was the best lover he ever had and no one before or since can compare. I soak up the flattery and return a compliment or two. I butt out the ciggy and reach for the wine glass. But Gavin captures my hand and pulls me gently toward him. I let it happen, maybe needing comfort more than him. His lips are hot and firm, his tongue unhurried and familiar as it tangles with mine.
We kiss for a long moment and when we finally break, he has my blouse undone and one breast free of the bra. 'No, Gavin,' I say but not with enough conviction to stop him leaning forward and sucking and kissing the revealed flesh. I pant as he zeros in on the nipple, making it quickly harden. As he works, he fishes the other breast free and steadily massages it. My breasts feel heavy and I am washed over with horniness. The bastard knows that once my boobs are being loved up, I have no resistance.
My hands go to the back of his head and I hold him steady, breathing through my mouth as he works one nipple, then the other. He has a hand up my skirt now, pulling at my pantyhose. When he gets a finger into my quim we can both hear it squish in my swampy arousal.
'I want to make love to you,' he says.
'No, Gavin. It's a really bad idea.' Even I can hear there's no conviction in the statement.
'We're both lonely, baby,' he says. 'We both need company and comfort.' He goes on about how it is just for immediate needs and doesn't have to mean anything else, how much I turn him on, how he dreams about my body; but it is his hands on my breasts and cunny that do the real persuading.
I don't say anything. He knows I want him. He stands and slowly unbuckles his belt. He has that confident smug leer that I so dislike as he pushes his pants and boxers down. For an instant I'm not sure I want to go on with this, but my need for sex outweighs the doubts. And there, a couple of inches in front of my face, sways his large cock in its bushy nest, as I remember it, with those low hanging balls. 'Suck me,' he says. I don't move and he shuffles forward, grasps his cock and wipes it around my face. I close my eyes, feeling its heat and softness, shuddering as it leaves a couple of warm droplets on my cheek.
'Suck me,' he says again, resting it on my lips. It is hardening now, the glistening head emerging from the foreskin. Any last reservations evaporate. I lap at it, wanting to taste the maleness, and suck the satiny knob till he is fully erect. He holds my jaw and feeds in its full length. He doesn't stop until my nose is pressed against his furry belly and his balls rest against my chin. I suckle on the shaft for a long moment, the cock head lodged in my throat. He sighs and says how much he's been missing this before pulling out then easing all the way forward again.
As he slowly fucks my face, just like he used to, I marvel at how instantly we have picked up the old ways and rhythm. I am revelling in his taste and want more, encouraged by his groans and throbbing member. I palm his scrotum and roll his balls, knowing how much he likes this; and when he pulls free of my mouth I know what he wants. Before he has to ask, I capture first one ball between my lips, then the other. His hands tangle in my hair and he grunts as I nurse, saying I sure know what he likes.
I certainly do and, accepting that I want this to happen, decide to show him I haven't forgotten his darker desires. After each ball has been thoroughly sucked, I turn him round and lick his buttocks, pulling one to the side revealing his sweaty crack and releasing a heady odour of arse and man musk. 'Do you still like your bum licked?' I murmur, kissing and nipping his firm cheek.
