The Marine

I don’t like blondes. I’ve never been attracted to blonde men, or women for that matter. Go figure, that fucking whore who wrecked my family was a cunty blonde.

I hate her.

He was easy; uncomplicated. A military lifer – the kinda guy with a rock hard body and absolutely nothing between his ears. Blonde and not the smartest – clichés are so convenient sometimes.

We smoked a cigarette and I thought about kissing him.
We drank and I thought about making out with him.
We went to sing karaoke and I thought about fucking him.

The bar was packed so I went with the usual crowd pleaser. I Love Rock-N-Roll. It’s easy; uncomplicated.

We kissed and it was good. We talked and it wasn’t.

He didn’t appreciate my unbelief in God. When a guy talks about getting baptized at church in between vodka redbulls and shots of jack – it’s a fair assumption he’ll be terrible in bed.

Christian boys can’t fucking give head. It’s just a goddman fact.

We fooled around. He got super sensitive when I told him to be gentler with my lady parts. Self-proclaimed eating-pussy-extraordinaire has a lot to learn to actually earn that title. I don’t know who he’s been sleeping with but someone should have taught him better along the way.

Speaking of, ever wonder who teaches jocks how to brag, baselessly? Because they all do it. Fucking sport-code.

He had whiskey dick. I lied and told him I came.
We fell asleep and I kicked him out at 5AM. He snored.
Of course he did. They dumb ones always do.

He left his phone and stopped over the next day to grab it. I fucked him.

I don’t know why.

I was wearing a jersey for the big game later that day. I think, by osmosis, wearing a goddamn football jersey morphed me into “that girl” –easy; uncomplicated.

After a decade of the worst sex – the kind that leaves you convinced you’re broken, getting wet for a hot, dumb marine feels good. Just the IDEA feels good, even if it ends with shitty sex.

He thrust three times and came. I didn’t even take off my jersey. I didn’t orgasm or even pretend to. He threw the condom in the trash and kissed me goodbye. Begrudgingly.

I knew what he was thinking – what that kind of hasty departure means. I remember well.

He felt guilty.

Evangelicals always do.

The sex wasn’t great. The experience wasn’t anything to write home about but those easy; uncomplicated primal places that have been dormant for far too long were put on high alert.

He wet my appetite for more.


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