The Last Man In Your Bed

The thing I often did after sex was going to a bar called Ronnie. You heard it right. I didn't fall asleep or take a shower or order pizza while naked. I went to a bar because it would be too early to do any of those things. It was only 9 pm on a Friday. I kissed him at 8, made him cum at 8.30. As a routine, he would pull me in to cuddle for about 10 minutes just so it didn't seem like he was only here for the sex, then he quickly got dressed and headed out of my apartment. It wasn't the first time this had happened. In fact, this seemed to happen more and more frequently, which I suspected was because he had someone else to juggle. You know, the main chick, the chick who deserved his full-on-Friday-night attention. Plus, due to the no-strings-attached nature of our relationship, I could tell he just didn't want me to get too attached to him, not anymore.

Well, too late. Obviously, after being on-and-off for a year and two months, I had already been way too attached. I could no longer brush off his casualness but had to admit to myself I was immensely pained by it. One night I told him I wanted us to stop, and in true fuckboy fashion, he texted back saying, "K that's cool", which didn't surprise me. Well, I wasn't surprised because I already knew how it would go. Usually, after a few days of no contact, he would get desperate and tell me he missed me. He would shower me with attention and sweet talks to lure me back into his arms, which was what I was secretly hoping for this time. However, for a month, there had been no word from him. No text. No call. All I heard was my own crying and Ronnie's bartender pouring more whiskey into my glass. I didn't want to believe it was really over.

Oh, don't worry. Crying and whiskey didn't happen at the same time. Oh God, that would be so pathetic. If you need to know anything about me, then that is, I always made sure I drank my whiskey in style. That evening, I was wearing a mini skirt, high heels, and dark lipsticks. My crystal earrings made me sparkle mysteriously in the dim part of the bar. I knew I looked seductive, or like how some men preferred to describe me, foxy. It wasn't exactly how I saw myself but whatever. You see, men and all the things they'd say to you before they could get you in bed -- I would rather shoot myself in the head than waste my time studying them. My best strategy was just to smile politely and take in nothing as it didn't make any difference to who I was as a person, yet it might save me from headaches or getting murdered. Joking, but not really.

Anyway, that night, I didn't want to deal with any of that. I was not interested in what men might say about me or to me. I figured I must've still been emotionally unavailable from the break-off that no romantic or sexual fantasy could entertain me then. I felt as though something in me had completely been switched off and disassociated me from the outer world without my administration. But honestly, it didn't bother me. I was rather amused by the gradual realisation that my vagina was no longer enticed by the sight of conventionally-perceived hot men who I would otherwise be drooling over. They appeared as sexually uninspiring as a tree or a rock considering that I didn't particularly want to fuck a tree or a rock. Basically, I had become an apathetic spectator to my own life and lost the intrinsically human desire to be seen by anyone, literally and figuratively, and it was both liberating and worrisome.

Then a thought crossed my mind when my eyes were caught by the brunette female bartender showing off her mixology skills, to whom I felt strangely drawn. What if I was attracted to women? I wondered. You know, like people who were struck by lightning and became a genius, I was hit by a fuckboy truck and found out I was, in fact, a lesbian. I wasn't too sure but it sounded plausible to me at the time, which might well be a sign of me needing a shrink more than I'd thought. Come to think of it, sexuality had always been a curious domain for me. Growing up in a conservative society, I was taught that men were for woman and women were for men, but it wasn't uncommon of me to challenge well-established ideas and make a personal decision for myself. I knew I was always fond of women. I adored women. I loved the women in my life. I just didn't know what would happen if that fondness, adoration, and love, was coupled with a sexual act.

With this thought in mind, I took a closer look all the women hanging at the bar. I enjoyed the fact that I was rather selective and not all females peaked my interest. As a feminist, I supported all kinds of women doing all sorts of things. As someone who was looking for a mate, I favoured only some and this was merely due to personal preferences. For example, I didn't like loud girls. I didn't think I would even want to be friends with a perpetually loud girl, let alone fuck her. I didn't like girls who were much taller than me. I didn't like girls who were shy or sexually inhibited or too traditional. I didn't like girls who might seem like she was more wifey-material than I was, especially the type of women who dressed modestly, whose facial features were plain and primitive but looking respectable and like she would really enjoy being a wife. Maybe I was being jealous. Maybe I wasn't really thinking as someone looking for a mate. Maybe I was just thinking of the woman he would marry and it intimidated me, mostly because I genuinely believed why wouldn't anyone marry a woman like that.  

I knew it was silly of me to even have such thoughts but I still went out of my way to avoid those women during my night anyway. I didn't need that kind of competition and irritation right then. Though, perhaps, I was thinking too much. I always thought too much when it came to my love life and it had times and times again proved to be a bad idea. It was not like I could actually control it. If someone came up to me and I felt a chemistry with this person, I wouldn't say no. I would say yes and I would fuck them until some stupid shit happened and stopped us from fucking. Right. I said fuck too much, didn't I? It was my lame attempt to sound tough and edgy so I could hide the true romantic in me who definitely cared not enough about fucking and way too much about subtexts. No. No more romantic; only fucking. And strictly no subtexts. Any interaction would be straightforward, done and gone.

It was when she sat down next to me and asked if I minded her joining me. I was taken aback. She was very pretty with shoulder-length hair and a low-cut dress, seemingly without any bra. I wouldn't feel too comfortable having my breasts hanging like that but she appeared very confident in her own skin, which I found attractive. I smiled and told her it would be my pleasure. Conveniently for me, at this point, the whiskey had begun kicking in. I became a smoother version of myself. I was flirty. I laughed louder than usual. I even laughed at her story about baby koalas which I had no idea why was funny. I guess it was the mysterious force commonly called chemistry. So I brushed her elbow, I patted her shoulder, I gazed into her eyes while casually licking liquid off my upper lips, knowing full well the act was suggestive. Her eyes were very hard to read but they were undoubtedly receptive and purposeful. My gut told me she had watched me from afar and somehow knew I was a regular. She might even know the reason why I was here.

But I didn't care. I was flattered. I thought I was lucky. I didn't even ask if she was interested in women. I assumed she was interested in me. By 11 p.m., I was drunk. I leaned in towards her and made some cheeky comments about the men who had been staring at us, my mouth close down her neck and my hand on her arm. I shamelessly pushed our boundaries as she was clearly responsive to it. It was refreshing, especially since we already had a common understanding of female sexuality and how our bodies worked. She smelled like the kind of women who had her shit together but wanted more out of life. She made me feel like I was that something more. We talked about men and patriarchy and female oppression. We were very passionate, drunkenly so, and eager to please as two inquisitive women who found a soft spot in each other. I told her my place was right around the corner and forwardly asked if she would like to continue the night with me. She said yes.

Mine was a stylish one-bedroom apartment with a small balcony overlooking the Thames. It was neat and cozy, just perfect for a night like this. I clumsily tried to turn on the lights but she didn't waste any time. She pushed me into the bedroom and climbed on top of me aggressively. I was pleasantly surprised and extremely excited. I could feel her thighs squeezing my hip, her eyes locked on my lips hungrily. I couldn't guess what she would do but I desperately wanted her to do something to me. Please come at me, I thought. I was getting horny. I was distracted. I was intoxicated. Then she bent down and sniffed me. My heart beat faster and faster. Was this really happening? I could burst into exhilaration when one of her hands started finding its way underneath my skirt. She whispered into my ears, "Who was the last man who did this to you?" It was when my pupils dilated. I couldn't believe that she actually pushed a finger straight inside me. It went so fast.

A woman fingered me.

She asked again, "Who was the last man you fucked?"

I told her about him as I figured it would turn her on hearing about my sexual past. It turned me on imagining him watching us too. But watching wasn't enough. Watching was too good for him. He should be tied to a chair with his mouth gagged, candle wax dripping on his feet, helplessly, she said. He needs to be taught a lesson, to pay a price, to remember the pain so he would stop slutting around hurting women, she emphasized. I giggled at the idea, my breathing escalated with the rhythm of her hand. I was so high on pleasure. There might even be something else in my system, I couldn't tell, but I started to feel like I was stepping out of my own body. I saw things which I didn't know were real or not. I saw the glamorous streets of London. I saw her reflection by my side in the glass windows we walked past. And I saw him. I saw us being together again, hands in hands, lusting after each other. I saw the high ceiling of my apartment, very detailed Victorian style. I saw my bathtub. I saw my little red-painted toenails.

Then I lost consciousness and woke up after what felt like an eternity to the annoying ringtone of my phone.

Bzz. Bzz. Bzz...

Well, it was a wild dream.

It was 7 a.m. the next morning. I forgot to put my phone on silence. The digital clock next to my bed also flashed a yellow LED-light and buzzed incessantly to bring me back to reality. I didn't know if I really wanted to if I was being honest. My skull was practically hammered and my body battered. Bang, bang, bang. Just non-stop. It was so unbelievably exhausting to get up that I felt like giving in to the comfort of my bed forever.

Well, I gave in temporarily. From where I was lying, I could see the balcony curtains flapping in the strong wind, shifting the amount of light penetrating the apartment. It made me feel like I was hiding in an uninhabited building in a post-apocalyptic world, which was comforting to the hollow soul of mine. Early mornings spent in bed like this were absolutely my favourite, especially after a crazy, blurry, heavy night. It was always so peaceful with the lack of light, the absence of human voices, and a sense of recovering. Something was going to get better.

But I could be wrong. A sudden pang of anxiety hit me as I collected the memory of my last twelve hours. Where is she? I thought. She wasn't in my bed, nor did it seem like there was anyone in my living room which was dyed in a cold shade of blue. Perhaps she had left in the middle of the night. Perhaps... my fingers accidentally touched a damp part of the bedsheet near where my body was rested. What is this? I moved my hand closer to my eyes and was startled to realise it might be blood. Blood. What happened? Did I have my period early? Did I hurt myself?

It was when my ears started tuning in to a strange distressing noise coming out from my bathroom which was a few feet away from the bed. The door wasn't fully closed so I could see some backlight entering the room, drawing a long line on the floor. I sat up. My feet felt dead cold the moments they touched the marble tiles, sending chills up my spine. There wasn't just sunlight running up to the bathroom door. There were also dry stains of dark-coloured liquid which potentially was blood. I tried to remain calm as I cautiously approached the bathroom. The increasingly intense noise sounded like it might be made by a human but I didn't dare to make such a conclusion until I opened the door and fully grasped the horrifying situation.

I was wide-eyed.

In the bathtub lied my fuckboy lover, mouth gagged, hands tied and feet chained to the shower riser rail. He couldn't get up. He couldn't move. He was shaking in pain and terror. His body was drowning in muddled water with shades of blood red. Next to the bathtub was a wooden chair with a long rope tangling around its four legs. There were drips of candle wax nearby which I also spotted on all over his feet, making his skin all red. Opposite the chair was the countertop basin on which a black lacy thong was carelessly thrown. That thong was unmistakably the one I had been wearing ten hours earlier when heading out to Ronnie. Well, apparently, I wasn't wearing one anymore. Something wasn't right. Something had happened, yet I couldn't recall anything. I didn't know who had got me into this. Where is she? What did she do to me? 

I quickly went find my phone as I was sure I needed to reach her to find an answer. Except... her last text was still shown on my locked screen.

Hey, I just got home. It was lovely meeting you. Let's hang out again soon xx

It was received at 11.34 p.m. What? How could it be?

I dragged my feet back to the bathroom where my fuckboy lover was still screaming in vain. I collapsed by the basin. There wasn't just candle wax on the floor. There were also pills, white pills I had taken before 11.34 p.m.

I remembered.

A woman fingered me. It was true, technically. Also in front of him, while he was sitting right there on that wooden chair, with no choice. And the blood. Where was he cut?

Where were you cut? 

I mean, where did I cut you? 

I turned to him and raised my voice asking almost too genuinely it sounded funny. His face turned completely white, his eyeballs were close to popping out of their sockets. More pathetic than ever.

I finally dropped my shoulders into a relaxed position and burst out laughing hysterically. My sharpened gaze was locked on him while I used one hand to slowly close the bathroom door.

Oh boy, did I really enjoy early mornings like this.