Fake

10:32:00 p.m. Come. The game is over, so you can now turn off the TV. The game, to which you were paying more attention than me, is over. To me, to me you were gave me that monotonous and repetitive caress, just to keep me awake. Come. Let yourself fall on top of me, while I willingly receive you, as usual, after having asked you to turned off the lights. Come. It’s tacitly my obligation and I don’t want to postpone it anymore. Come. It’s time, as every night, as every goddamn night⸺you have to⸺you must⸺fuck me. Your quickie hand⸺always quickie hand⸺finds its way between the skirt of my housecoat and my thighs. Your rustic fingers, which seek more their own pleasure than mine, find me dry because, as usual, as every night, you were incapable of extending the foreplay, of resisting the clumsy desire of get in, out, get-in-and-out. Of me. I have to do it. Otherwise you turn insufferable and even come to insinuate about a hypothetical infidelity, of which you and me know I’m incapable of.

10:32:33 p.m. You on top. The only way your suffocating and controlling personality allows you to be: I underneath you, almost immobile, holding your whole weight, felling your sweat drops dripping on my back, withstanding the brutal pressure you make on my arms to keep me in the same position; feeling the pain in my scalp when you pull my hair so to lift my head from the pillow and see my features: you want to know if I’m enjoying it. You need to know that I’m enjoying it. I hate you. I hate faking, although I confess that when I smile to you I do it sincerely: your credulity is fun to me. It is fun to me that, after four years together, enduring your mood swings, your despotic character, your depressive crisis, your infidelities; after four years at the end of which you had already lost of kind of interest in me, you actually believed that, indeed, I enjoy this. Yes, I would smile again.
I hate you because I can’t even leave you. I hate you because I don’t know why I’m still with you. I don’t know what binds me to you. Come. Pull my hair and bite my chin. Do it monotonously as you always do when close to ejaculate. I want to finish this. I want to take a shower, get myself rid of your hairs, your sweat, your saliva and come back to bed to hate you again, now silently, because I would dare to say that it takes you longer falling asleep after sex than having sex. So when I come back from the bathroom, I find you there, snoring with your mouth open, insensible to me, to my feelings.
 
10:33:56 p.m. Your hand rises, goes down and spanks me, leaving red finger prints on my skin, and you want to hear that little yell of pain that I always let escape. And you know why I let it escape? Because I want to turn you on. And you know why I want to turn you on? Because I want you to cum, so you separate from me and I could go wash myself and sleep and forget that I’m with you. I want to sleep and dream about anything that had nothing to do with this sad reality.
Slap me. Slap me so you can feel manly. Slap me so you increase my hatred for you. Yes, I despise you because I haven’t come to the point at which offenses, humiliations and pain only increase the pleasure that precedes the climax. Bite my nipples, as an unweaned baby, close your hand around my neck, bite my shoulders, pull my hair; that I shall squeeze my toes, I’ll moan, I’ll answer your morbid questions with soft voice, my breathing fast. Yes, moron. I want to tell you. I want you to know that my thighs are not trembling due to the orgasmic freeing of sexual tension, my moans aren’t but by-memory imitations of past moans, real ones; my toes aren’t squeezing for the spasmodic reaching of climax, my nails don’t scratch you with lust; they scratch you, instead, with real hatred. I’m not frowning but because I intentionally contract my facial muscles in order to turn you on: cum! Have you asked yourself why I always ask you to turn the lights off? To give rein to my imagination, to be able to pretend better, to imagine that you are another man, another man whom I don’t know; and that’s precisely the main reason why I hate you: I wish I could, like you, have some affair. I wish I had, as you have, more options, other arms to hug me when I need it, but only thinking about it scares me. And even though I had had my chances,⸺I hadn’t told you before, but I had had my suitors⸺I had always stepped back when they have wanted to take our relationship to the next level: I don’t allow myself more than flirting chats through WhatsApp. Statistically, it is really hard for us to cum at the same time, you idiot, and it’s even harder to do it every night. You haven’t think about it for a moment. I fake simultaneity because if I pretend that I had cummed first, then you feel disappointed and couldn’t ejaculate due to the apathy that I⸺obviously⸺have to pretend after pretending having cummed, however⸺again obviously⸺it isn’t really necessary for me to fake apathy. On the other hand, if I let you cum first, then you won’t sleep, waiting for the second round to be satisfied with your manhood: you must make me cum. So I found the way out in the unlikely simultaneity.
 
10:35:51 p.m. You grab my left breast with your hand and bite my nipple wildly. You’re close.

10:37:01 p.m. You take my right leg and cross it over your torso, letting me laid on my left side. You kiss my ankle, lick my sole. You increase the rhythm. I start to talk to you.
“Mmmh, yummy. Yeah, I like it. Yes. My God. Yes. Yes. Harder. Harder! There, baby, yeah. Ah. Ah. Ah. A-ah-a-ah-ah.”

10:38:27 p.m. I turn on the lights.