I am so sorry.

5 min readJul 23, 2022

This is fiction.

She’ll be talking big on the internet. She’ll be flooding. She’ll be going on about men, discontent, wickedness. Little miss, her. She’ll be wishing, manifesting, resolving. She’ll be conflicted, divergent. She’ll be caught between that Jesus in red font and that cannabis in red lights, between that sexy mysterious and that lousy influencer. You know, the usual. She’s a good girl. But she’s also a good girl. I’ll be observing. I’ll be doing by unassuming, nerdy, cringe shit. Unassuming is the word. I do not score points for sex appeal. It doesn’t matter. I’d rather it’s a surprise.

When she eventually comes through, I hope I see her. I hope it’s not Sia, I hope it’s not acting. I hope it’s not sanctimony.

If she lets me, I’ll be kissing her on her mouth, holding on to her lips. I’ll be holding her close and kissing her deeply. I’ll be slipping my hands down from the cusp at her neck to the softness at her ass. I’ll be folding it in my hands. I’ll be squeezing at her throat if she likes it. Oh, she does. I’ll be stuffing her throat with my tongue, suddenly grabbing her so she gasps.

I’ll be placing my tongue everywhere. I’ll be sliding it down her neck, making diagonals on her stomach, kissing her navel, rummaging her thighs. I’ll be making slimy circles at her nipples, tonguing them while she draws me closer.

I’ll be placing her on my laps, in front of her mirror. I’ll be making her stare at her reflection. So she sees that she is dripping all over — she is an animal like me, only that I have her leash. So she knows, beyond doubt, that this is happening, that this is who she is, this is who I am, this is how I do it, this is how she reacts. I do not want to be discredited later.

I’ll be fingering, making circles at her pussy, probing, waiting for the clit to join us, as erect as it can be. And when it comes, when it dampens on my middle finger, she knows she’s fucked. Pun intended. Porn intended. Because I’ll be teasing, picking, tickling. She’ll be jerking, wincing. I’ll be holding her still, until she squirts, until there is a pool beneath us. I’ll then be mocking her, giggling, drawing crosses of her cum on her forehead. I present to you, Simba.

Before I make her kneel before me. My turn.

She better open up. Her lips better be ready. It better be wet. I better see skill, commitment. She better spit on it, slurp. It better be distinction in gag reflex. She better build momentum, do a crescendo. I’ll be standing over her, holding both of her hands in one of my mine. I’ll be thrusting slowly, back, and forth. Until she has spit dripping onto her bare chest. Eat, my child, eat. And when she tugs at it, with both hands because I am him, she better look me in the eye. Until I am moaning. Until I am content.

Until I raise her up only to lay her down. I’ll be tapping on her lips, inquiring. I’ll be slipping it in and out, slowly. Until it is slippery inside. Until she begs. Until she curses. Then I’ll be going at it, my hands behind her back, one deep thrust after another, at whatever tempo she prefers, for as long as she wants. I’ll be drowning her moans with kisses, tugging at her nipples, staring at her face, while my necklace swings above her. Then I’ll be raising her legs, then forcing her feet beside her ears, stroking even deeper, until I fear for her.

And whenever I sense the spot, I’ll be swinging at it, pounding heavily like I hate her. I’ll be talking her through it, asking if she is okay, if I am getting it right. I know I am. But I have to make her come first. I have to make her cum first. I have to make her confess. And when I see the splash, when her nails dig into my back, when she quivers uncontrollably, screams, my work is done.

For my pleasure, I prefer to turn her around, make her bend over. I prefer to see her lie, relaxed on the pillow, with her ass slightly elevated. Yes. I’ll be going slowly then quickly, profusely. It is at this point we make music — the bed creaks while my stomach does the ta-tah against her ass. The perfect metronome. She’ll be hysterical, caught up in some frenzy, saying meaningless things that would make her shy later. “I love you… your dick!” True shit. Really? I prefer to pull her hair and spank her ass while I repeatedly ask, “what’s my name?” Again, it is daddy. My name is daddy. And she is a good girl, I’ll be telling her that.

Clarity follows these things but I’ll be ready. She’ll be texting me in some days to ask about meeting out. Or calling to say we can never see again because she doesn’t want to ruin whatever both of you have. That’s terrible, she never mentioned you. Or she’ll be asking about my tweets, my Medium, making me promise that whatever my latest is, it is not about her. I’ll be rolling my eyes, usually after the fourth different woman asks the same question.

But right after I come, after we both catch our breaths, I’ll be reaching for the air conditioning. Then my wine glass. Then my lighter. I’ll be taking my puffs, majestically. She’ll be lying flat, staring at my back, pondering on the most dignifying thing to say. As if she can save herself. I’ll be smiling to myself. My corny, unassuming self.

Yes, it is at this point your text comes in. She has missed five of your calls. Who calls five times? You want to know how she is doing. You are sorry about something; you just want to talk. Quick succession, capital letters, exclamation marks? Damn, my brother in Christ, I had no idea. If you loved the girl, I am so, so sorry.