Image by the amazing Stuart F Taylor
We’re chatting about fucking, and all the bucket list sex we’d like to have. Recently we’ve been trying to plan more kinky sex, so this sort of stuff is occupying our thoughts, but it’s hard to think of anything enticing yet possible: we’re pretty good at ticking new sordid kinks off the second they cross our filthy minds, so most of the fucking we want to do has already been done. I ponder the issue for a while before suddenly it hits me. There’s one really significant thing that I’ve never done with this particular guy: break up.
“We should break up.”
“Something we’ve never done.”
“We’ve never broken up! We’ve had fights, sure. And tough times. We’ve been to relationship counselling and we’ve had those long, tortured arguments where we never manage to make any headway but… we’ve never actually broken up.”
“Well… no. Because we don’t want to. Right?”
“Right. But picture it. We have one really massive, blow-out row, until we’re bitter and hurting and filled with tortured misery. We still love each other, and the waves of hurt are radiating through our chests, crashing against our battered hearts time and time again…”
“But then we fuck. We fuck with a kind of rage-filled energy, as if we’re using our bodies to cement our own hotness in the other person’s mind. We fuck performatively – beautifully – to remind each other just how good we are at this and how much we’ve got to lose. Then, when we’re spent and exhausted, we lie in each other’s arms and cry. We stay awake the whole night sneaking silent glimpses at each other in the darkness, letting tears roll down our cheeks and reminiscing about all the good times we had, that we may never have again.”
“OK but -”
“THEN! Then comes the sad sex: the sex you have when you realise it might be the very last time. All soft and careful and slow and gentle with each other. Touching the other person’s skin as if it’s precious and special. Trying to fix the memory of their body in your mind. To memorise their tearstained face, storing the picture for later. Trying to absorb the very scent of them. As far as bucket list sex goes, we’ve never really done this, because we’ve never properly tried to break up before.”
“I see what you mean. But is it worth it for that particular kind of bucket list sex?”
“It’s not just that kind of – there are others too. There’s the fuck you have about a week after one of you has left, when the other gets in touch to say ‘fancy a drink?’ and you figure ‘why not?’, then spend an hour getting ready because you want them to remember how hot you can be. The fuck you have after a few pints and a tense chat, when the whole pub feels so charged with your horny electricity that you expect lightbulbs to start exploding at any moment. The snog you have outside the pub where suddenly all the lust you felt for the last however many years comes thudding – at once – to your crotch and you realise if you can’t have this person right now you know you’ll die.
“When you get home you’re almost panting with the desire to tear into each other, but you know the drill won’t allow for immediate fucking. First at least one of you needs to say ‘we can’t’ and the other reply with ‘we mustn’t’ and you realise that at some point during this evening you’ve forgotten who left who: all that exists now is two people, drifting towards each other, horny and sad and tortured and hot and desperate to do the one thing you both said you wouldn’t do. Only once you’ve acknowledged that fucking’s forbidden can you truly get down to the filthy stuff.
“And by ‘filthy’ I mean F.I.L.T.H.Y. That’s the kind of bucket list sex I’m talking about: all capital letters and aching moans and biting and smacking and nostalgia. Fucking you have to keep breaking off for more ‘we shouldn’t’s and ‘let’s not’s, but only because the ‘let’s not’ makes the next stage of fucking more fun. Choking each other and pissing on each other and spitting in each other’s mouths because you know each other well enough to dance on the edge of all your boundaries. Telling each other, mid-fuck, how much you’ve missed the smell of their hair and their armpits and their spunk.
“Revelling in the way they know your body so well, and the way you know theirs: that instant familiarity that feels like coming home. And oh good God the taste of them! They taste like all the love they’ve given you over the last eight years of your life, and all the dirty fumbles under blankets at their parents’ house and sweaty, slippery holiday sex in Greece. And their fingers are inside you and their dick’s in your hand and it feels so hard and smooth and perfectly-shaped, as if your hand was made for the sole purpose of holding something exactly like this.
“When they’re inside you, you want to cry, because maybe this time really is the last. So you moan more loudly and hold them more tightly, clench your body around them as if you’re clinging to the debris after a shipwreck. And each stroke of them inside you feels so right and yet so wrong. You’re punishing yourself by giving in to your animal lust for someone you know is going to hurt you – the same someone who, in the darkness of a sweaty, lustful night, you cannot comprehend having ever agreed to part with. This fuck is both a reward for reuniting and a punishment that you ever foolishly agreed to throw this thing away.
“Then when you’re done, and they’ve left, you get to masturbate intensely and passionately about all the stuff you did last night. Occasionally weeping, often wondering if you should text them again.
“Then days – weeks – of silence, in which you gradually haul yourself out of the pit of sadness and start getting on with your life. A life you’re building mostly to prove to them you can. Then one day, when you’re happy and horny and enjoying it, and you’ve almost-but-not-quite-forgotten, they email you again to say ‘drink?’ and the whole cycle kicks off again.”
There’s a long pause. He looks at me with a stern face, then delivers his verdict on my weird bucket list sex suggestion:
“No, I’m not going to break up with you just so we can have tortured sex.” Before gently cupping his semi-hard cock and adding, with a filthy smirk: “But you should write that up, it’s hot.”
Honestly, how am I meant to get an erotic breakup underway when he insists on being so fucking sexy?