My House Guest {the final night}

15 Aug

It was our last night together, and I needed a new plan. HottieFireman was leaving the next day to go home, and I was determined to accomplish my goal.

After 4 days of being rejected, I realized that I had been breaking all of my own rules. Not only did I tell him that I wanted him, but I threw myself at him…EVEN after he told me he didn’t want me. Now that kind of attention can be flattering–in small doses; in large doses {like 4 days}, it can be repulsive.

By telling him that I still wanted him after he rejected me, I broke another rule: I gave him all the power. He may have had it the whole time, but by pointing it out, I was just asking him to run wild with it. 

So, the new plan meant I needed to put my head back on my shoulders and approach him the same way I would anyone else I wanted to sleep with: I would act like I could care less. The second part of the plan would be to get him drunk. Drunky, drunk, drunk {Yes, I realize I sound slightly rape-ish here, but after 4 days, I had to pull all of my cards}.

Step 1: Finish a bottle of vodka at the apartment. Check. Step 2: Meet work friends out on the town. More drinks. Check. Step 3: Flirt with every thing that moves and has a penis. Check. Step 4: Ignore HottieFireman. Check.

I could tell the plan was working because he couldn’t keep his hands away from my ass. That and the fact that he was acting like a big drunk frat boy. So much so that my friend pulled me aside to ask if this was REALLY the guy I was having trouble nailing. This was going to be like shooting fish in a barrel… or some sexual version of that saying.

Soon enough, we were in cab heading back to my apartment. We stumbled up the stairs, grabbing each other for balance as much as for pleasure. He already had my dress unzipped and was starting to pull it off of my shoulders by the time I was fumbling with my keys to get the front door open. He picked me up and threw me onto my bed. If only I had known, as we were pulling each other’s clothes off, that it would be the last “normal” thing that would happen.

The next 15-20 minutes weren’t a blur as most of my sexual experiences are–probably because the passion disappeared before it had a chance to blind or deafen me as it usually does. Instead, I remember every word he said, every aggressive push of his hand, every quizzical look that crossed my face.

I can honestly say, after all of my MANY sexual experiences, that I have never been talked to in that way. I’ve never heard the words dirty slut uttered more times through gritted teeth. And I’ve never felt more like a doll or an object placed there for someone’s enjoyment. Dirty talk I’m used to, but this was different. He was saying things to me, but I wasn’t allowed to say anything back. He was touching me, but I wasn’t allowed to touch back. I might as well have been a prostitute… and a cheap one at that, because {get ready for this}… he STILL DIDN”T HAVE SEX WITH ME. After far too many minutes of this strange, forceful, and disconnected sexual behavior, all he did was jack himself off, make a huge mess and walk out of the room without saying another word.

Weirdest. Sexual. Experience. Of my LIFE. {It even tops the time that guy asked me to slap him and then put that knife in my wall.}

I just laid there in shock. Then I turned on the light and looked in the mirror. I had to see myself to make sure I was still real, to make sure this was really my life. What the hell?! I actually laughed out loud for a moment, because the whole thing seemed so strange.

When I heard him get out of the shower and walk down the hall, I slipped into the bathroom. When I got in the shower, I just stood there, too mentally exhausted to attempt basic hygiene. I felt drained and gross and used. Slowly I pushed my hands over my hair, smoothing the hot water through it, attempting to rinse out the cum, attempting to rinse away what had just happened.

When I got out of the shower he was lying in my bed as if nothing was wrong. I told him I was pissed. I was pissed that we STILL hadn’t had sex. I told him I got nothing out of his little escapade and wasn’t impressed. He said it had been a “test,” to see if I really could be submissive, to see if I really could step out of my bossy-pants, controlling role. I said that if that was the test, I clearly passed. Suddenly he didn’t have anything to say. He realized I was right and that his bullshit argument that I was too much of a man-eater, too sexually aggressive, for him didn’t hold up.

But then I realized it didn’t matter how many tests I passed or how many of his qualifications I met, we would never end up together because he didn’t love me back. When he finally said it, I let myself cry over him one last time. And as I cried, I gave into him. I let him hold me and comfort me as the friend he so desperately claimed he wanted to be.

I cried for our winding history–for the first time I saw him in the baseball dugout and for the times we swam in the lake. I cried for the hours-long phone calls and for all of the plans we had made. I cried because I loved him and because I knew, for the first time in our 5 year friendship, that we wouldn’t fully recover. I cried for the fact that we would never be the same.

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