Popcorn


 

He had sex like he ate popcorn.

Greedily, hurriedly, and laser focused.

I was probably more of an accessory than a participant in our rendezvous.

Still, I have no idea why I miss him.

No one’s ever complimented my asshole before.

It’s certainly not something I imagined, someone telling me how beautiful my asshole is.

He wanted to take it.

I didn’t let him.

It stays beautiful for a reason.

Part of me misses our dysfunctional relationship.

It was more like a masochistic, open relationship than friends with benefits.

We connected and liked each other.

He was obsessed with my sex.

I wanted more than just that.

We would have been a disaster.

I miss talking to him.

He was crass and blunt, not the romantic type.

But then he would slip up and turn tender, almost like it was against his will.

I know he still thinks about me.

I still think about him.

He’s probably dying to know if I’ve started to date again.

If I’ve had sex with anyone.

He’d want to know where, when and how.

I, on the other hand, don’t want to know about what he’s been up to.

Ignorance is bliss.

I have a feeling I’m the more active one anyway, which is funny because I’m the one who doesn’t want casual sex.

I’m the one that wants a relationship.

He was both jealous and fascinated with how sex was just thrown at me.

I don’t go looking for it, it finds me.

None of that matters anyway.

I like to savor my popcorn.

Eat it slow and steady.

Relishing each popped kernel.

I share.

Popcorn always tastes better that way.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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