Even after he left, I continued to lie there, stretched out across the bed with my hands behind my head. He’d worked me over pretty hard so I still feel him everywhere – my shoulder is still pulsing from the impression of his teeth. I listened to about five or six tracks, staring up at the ceiling, and I let the sweat dry on my skin before I gathered the energy to get up. I pulled on a pair of cotton pants and a light top and I walked across the room to grab my laptop and phone. The plan was to get some work done.

(And I see that he sent a very sweet text. I like this guy.)

So I’m thinking about work. I want to work. But my skin smells like sex and it’s distracting me. This is the best feeling, this throbbing wetness and this pulsing at the surface of my skin. I feel physical, a little slutty and definitely past the point of intellectual competence.

I doubt I’ll get work done, so instead I’ll probably go back to where we were and lie flat on my back. And I’ll put on some headphones, select my favorite playlist, and drift. I’m still wet.

*

I’ve got a date with my fuckbuddy this weekend. An actual date. Fuckbuddy and I do not date – it goes against the whole principle of the thing – but he’s mentioned this a few times, usually in the form of, “why aren’t we dating?” and “we should actually go out sometime” and “how long have we known eachother?” So, we’ll have our first date, proper-like, with drinks and dinner. It just seems so backward, given our history.

The last time I saw him, we were in his apartment. He opened his fly and pulled out his hard-on, palming its heft just inches from my face. And I was on my knees fingering my cunt, with my eyes half-closed and my mouth just open.