Hot, Cheating Sex Doesn’t Need a Goddamn Soundtrack
When playing the guitar was the wrong move
Ah Christ. This was supposed to be fuckin.’
Just fuckin’... no cuddles, no snuggles, no giggles no tickles. We were rock-solid, crystal-clear that this was an arrangement that would give each of us what we needed. What we had to have to function like human beings in the world.
It would keep her from killing her sister and all the other morally superior cancer cells in her life, who constantly ripped her for having interest in anything outside of her fossilized bedroom. It would prevent me from risking having semen leak out of my ear during a meeting because that’s where I’m at with a Viking Range libido and a Sub-Zero King Size bed.
We meet, we blast each other’s fluids onto the sheets (and the ceiling and the dresser and the headboard and the carpet) and we get dressed and we go the fuck home or to work or JJill or the hot yoga place.
And that worked for a good 5 weeks. No guilt, certainly no shame.
Yeah, I made a questionable decision to try to squeeze in a visit between a court appearance and a Little League game. And yeah, she showed up at that horrible sister’s house on Easter in an outfit that may or may not have smelled like me, and featured a well-washed DNA sample, but it was working, Jack.
We were happy, were satisfied, we were lucky that we had found each other, and we said so in plain, clear English.
Because we knew that anything more, anything beyond the purely physical release of dangerously taught sexual explosiveness was the first step on the road to all things shitty:
getting busted
or losing the spark
or fucking with the chemistry
or losing interest.
And Then I Fucking Blew It
I blew it.. not her. Not the tantalizingly feminine woman who smelled like lilacs and fucked like a linebacker. I blew it. Because faced with a quiet night of longing, I got emotionally greedy and acted out and broke the rules. By straying? Nope. By singing. Oh, you teary schmuck.
Yup.
My body wasn’t enough, my humor wasn’t enough, my confidence wasn’t enough. Or so I thought. Her perfection squatted in my brain to such a degree that I couldn’t take not hearing from her. It’s like when the Apps tell you there is no one left in your age group, or your Ethnic preference or your geographical area so you say, “Yeah, let’s see if there’s anyone in Belize who wants to fuck me,” and you expand your search parameters. That’s needy. Or you check back in with the woman you met online who, no joke, really wanted you to impregnate her, and actually fuck her through her pregnancy. And we’d never met in person. That’s just nuts.
And it had only been two days! I couldn’t suck it out of her literally so I tried to do it emotionally and I…
Sent her a song. I recorded me playing her a song. On my guitar. Not an original song, I’m not that deluded. And not a fuckin’ love song either. A rock song. A good song, a song I play well, a song that means something to me. But it might as well have been “I Will Always Love You.”
I instantly realized my mistake. What had I done? How had I taken this perfect fuck fest and reduced it to High School Musical? And why?
But rather than it working to repel her…. It actually…
Nah, it repelled her. She sent me a humiliating goodbye text and blocked me. Dramatically. Painfully.
So tell me… what happened?
No more cheating soundtracks.
