Pretty Remedy

By: S.E. Hall

There’s nothing better than getting lost in a woman—greedy lips molded around me or warm pussy smothering my dick—either one. Take now for instance; I just finished burying myself in some pretty pink heat as she screeched and moaned my name ‘til the guests in the next room felt as if they knew me personally. Then she begged to lick her essence off me and get me hard again for round two.

But we’re done here. Rule #1, written in blood and stone: never, ever double dip. If they’re coming back for more physically, they’re coming back for more of the other stuff too… more talking, more feelings, and most definitely more expectations.

None of which I do.

“Where ya going?” Her manipulative mewl slithers down my spine like stage-five clinger fingernails on a chalkboard.

“Things to do,” I answer, void of any emotion except desire—for escape. I keep my back to her as I speed-dress, slowing only at my zipper… for obvious reasons.

“But his game will last all night.” I swear her voice didn’t sound near as nasally downstairs. “Come back to bed, baby.”

“Sorry, can’t.” And I’m far from your baby. “It’d be a real good idea for you to mosey back to Sugar Daddy or your own suite before he notices you’re gone.”

“W-well, when will I see you again?” The bed squeaks.

Please don’t let her be getting up to come after me. All buttoned and zipped, shoes on, I turn to offer a contrived but warm parting grin and damn near knock her over. Wrapped in a sheet, she’s standing an inch from me.

“You might not.” I patronizingly stroke her arm. “But you already knew that, so why ask?” I’m about to call her by name, until I realize I can’t remember it. Coco’s not right. Chanel maybe? “Listen, you.” I nauseate myself with the syrupy condescension I’m slathering on thick. “We both had fun, and we talked about this beforehand. Besides, have you seen you?” I let my eyes travel the length of her and back up for convincing emphasis. “Women who look like you should never have to ask for more. It’s my loss.”

“Bu—”

“Sshh,” I hush her, one finger on her lips. “Tell me good-bye nicely, and let me walk away. Don’t make this any harder than it already is, please.”

For one fleeting moment, that telltale “I got this” sparkle returns to her eyes, and the corners of her mouth lift in a knowing grin.

She doesn’t know. Nor does she “got” anything.

She rises to her tiptoes, curls her arms around my neck, and kisses the hell out of me, putting her all into it.

For the briefest moment I allow it, and then I pull away. Another grin tugs at my lips— this one not as contrived since I’m about to make my escape—and I walk backward to the door. “Take care of yourself, beautiful.” Ignoring her further, desperate attempts to convince me to stay, I soundlessly close the door to the Arabian Nights penthouse and rush down the hall, praying for the veil of anonymity.

It always happens the same way. Every. Damn. Time. The second I finish coming, the blip of exhilaration dissipates, and I’m left feeling vapid and angry. I turn my back on my latest conquest and, blocking out the images of insincere, physical satiation, scurry off like a criminal.

Maybe I should quit fucking them.

Or maybe I shouldn’t.

The tête-à-têtes and unrequited clinginess are as much their fault as mine—more so in fact, if everyone’s being honest with themselves. I tell them straight up, in plain English, no “code” or sidestepping what I’m really saying, that it’s one fuck. I offer absolutely nothing more, and they accept. But women have a specific order and purpose to everything they do. It shouldn’t eat at me when another woman discovers her plan didn’t work, and—surprise!—she isn’t the one “different” enough to change me.

You want to be the lady worthy of a call the next day, flowers, a ring? Then don’t ride the dick until you get at least one of them. And if you do jump on—gyrating and grinding in what you’re just certain is some mystical, “he’s never had it so good before” kind of way—and it doesn’t work, don’t blame anyone but yourself. Who was really trying to manipulate whom?

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