Tomorrow I have a midterm, and tonight I studied. With an old old friend, the first one I ever met in New York,. One I had a big crush on during Freshman orientation and over the summer and drunkenly hooked up with once welcome week, except that was when I was still a virgin, didn’t know what I was doing. I probably didn’t do a very good job of giving a blow job. I guess the hook up came as a bit of a surprise to both of us.

But what followed our two hours of going over medieval/Renaissance British literature didn’t come as a surprise. After all, Valentine’s Day, after a while of toying with the idea—and I mean, simply the idea of it was delicious enough to want to test out—, I had texted him: Happy Valentine’s Day. We should probably fuck soon. And he had said: alright, sounds good (what a response).

He was a redhead (do I have a thing for them?), tall, impeccably well dressed in hip designer clothes. Once, we bonded over our love of the Decemberists and he sang one of their songs during the orientation talent show. I imagined us playing lots more frisbee in Washington Square Park and drinking champagne on the Hudson, and singing along to indiepop songs. Nowadays he only listened to pop-rap and electro. 

We knew what was coming, after our studying, though. Knew the ritual and the proper things to do. I forgot about college boys. How he was quick, passionate and rough, but not in a meticulous deliberate sort of way, in an impatient, get this shirt off your head and naked, and soon, sort of way. A change. I asked him about sex, as I always did. Favorite kinks, fetishes, fantasies. I guess most hipster girls weren’t as kinky as I (though he did quite adore hearing my exploits). He was impressed: when did you learn to choke on cock?

I guess it came as a bit of a surprise, his ease of adapting, the way he threw me beneath him and held my arms down without instruction. His desire to tease, not allow my hungry kisses or the way he rubbed his cock against the wet lips of my pussy, but never entering. The also unexpected finger in my ass, which I’ve learned to love, the thrill of the slight pain and pressure. His cock was long, somehow flexible. So much so that when he did fuck me, I winced in pain, his thrusts harder than I expected (even with all the rough roughs sex I’ve had?!). He was a natural dom waiting to be enlightened.

Unfortunately, some combination of the terrible lube I have that burned the instant it made contact with my pussy, and the length of his cock, and my somewhat distracted mind made the sex relatively short lived. Still, he loved that I fucked myself for him, and positioned me with my head hanging over the edge of the bed, his cock sliding deeper down my throat than I think any ever had, before. A bit of a flutter of fear and a bit exhilarating.

After all that we played more catch up, on life, friends, ironic gossip. I think I might have liked that better than the sex. I’ve been spoiled by lovers too perfect for irregularity, but this, this I appreciated, missed. 

He left. I responded to Bad Idea’s earlier text, about him going away for the weekend and seeing him before he left tomorrow. I closed my eyes and waited. A moment later my phone vibrated, and the most meaningless details, the insignificant wording of Bad Idea’s text made me smile, and press the phone to my lips. 

…And I thought I’d had gotten past that. Someone find me a resolution.