I waited almost a year to fuck Deondre, and I’m glad I did. I had to make sure that I could interpret the rush of endorphins to my head as being nothing more than physical pleasure.
I am extremely aware of the fact that having sex with a man doesn’t mean anything more than you had sex with that man.
When I realized that I liked Deondre and wanted more than sex, I knew sex was not an option. I actually considered leaving my boyfriend to date him but knew that shit only worked in the movies. So I decided to stay with the ex and made a good effort at not imagining I was fucking Deondre while riding the ex’s dick.
I cut Deondre out of my life. The visits to his office ended. Sushi for lunch was replaced with turkey sandwiches the ex prepared. Our late night conversations dwindled into late night texts, which came to a halt when the ex went sneaking through my phone and read that, “I miss it”.
He knew what IT was. I knew what IT was. But we both ignored it and went to sleep.
A platonic relationship between Deondre and I bloomed in the spring semester. He had a new girlfriend, wanted to marry her, and I was faking happy (and multiple orgasms) with the ex. Life was perfect.
I knew I was ready to fuck him when he told me that he planned on extending their engagement date, and I felt nothing. I wasn’t happy. I didn’t visualize him getting a ring sized for me instead of her.
All I saw was the imprint of his dick in those royal blue balling shorts he loves to wear.
So I told him I wanted to fuck him. He was shocked but nonetheless interested.
The problem a lot of women have is that they overanalyze sex. Fuck being a bag lady and bringing your past drama into a new relationship. Women need to stop lugging in the idea that after sex a man will want more and there will be more into the bedroom.
Usually, when a woman sleeps with a man for the first time she begins to suffer from thoughts of grandeur: “What does this mean?” “What does this make us?” “Where will this go?” Hoping that the answers will lead to an emotionally healthy stable relationship.
Get up, get dressed and accept that the answers are: We had sex. Fuck buddies. Hopefully unto the floor with you on your knees and me fucking you from behind.
On the other side of the bed, the man is thinking, “Damn, that shit was good”. He is not considering you as his next girlfriend or if he should cancel his fuck appointments for the upcoming week and deem you his exclusive fuck.
Sex is sex. It is not the beginning of a monogamous relationship. Instead it may be the last time you see him.
He is not your next boyfriend, he is the next sexual partner added to your list.
He is not your man; you are not his boo.
He is a tongue, dick, and balls.
You are not a pretty face; you are a pussy. A wet and willing pussy. And when you leave there will be another one awaiting his thrust.
And if you chose to attach your heart to your clit and allow him to eat and devour both then you are at fault, not him.
We become enraged when men try us by leaving out the fact that in their world oral sex implies intercourse. But can you imagine how a man feels when the conditions of monogamy and a long-term relationship are not brought to the table during negotiations.
When they are finally revealed after multiple orgasms.
They freak! They still fuck us, but they freak.
I just wish some women (including myself) would stop playing the victim, stop getting played, and learn the rules of the game:
Sex is sex. Cum does not belong on your glasses. Raw dawg is a never. And apparently oral sex does imply intercourse.
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