Anyone I’ve dumped can tell you that when I’m done, I’m done. No drunk phone calls, no doors left open to pique their curiosity, nothing besides a series of social media blocks and a re-downloading of Tinder to take advantage of that rebound life.
But as my last relationship began to reach its inevitable end, it wasn’t strange dick I was craving this time — it was reliable dick! A known history of a top-notch cock attached to a man who treated me with actual human dignity and kindness made it easy to fantasize about my ex-boyfriend. This redigging of the past also got me thinking about how after all two of these years apart, it was probably time to apologize for some of my less-than-stellar behavior during the relationship.
So after years of silence, I emailed him out of the blue to say sorry. It was the least I could do after being put through a more intense version of what I had put him through.
It was quickly clear that he had been thinking about me, too, even though he found himself in a serious relationship shortly after our split. Yet within days of my email — which needed no reply — The Ex was making casual inquiries into my life, offering himself as a shoulder to cry on, just in case I needed it. I had made no indication that I was in need of a friend, but he threw the first roll on a game I’m constantly dying to play: navigating complicated, forbidden sexual tension. And it barely occurred to me that I had spent two years intentionally avoiding the guy: I was fully aboard the express train to fucking the shit out of my ex.
I can’t deny my intrigue. The visceral memories of the love we made distracted me from my work, consuming my mind in touchless ecstasy. Even though the relationship didn’t work out, I never stopped re-playing those steamy scenes for my own personal pleasure. He filled my spank bank so full to the brim that there’s never been room for anyone else. Getting back in touch and knowing he still craved my body was enough to put me over the edge, enough for me to toe the line of morality.
But I don’t fuck with infidelity. I did the painful, grown-up thing of setting a boundary, citing his existing relationship and my past behaviors as reasons to steer clear. It took a surprising amount of work, considering what he had to lose, but eventually he accepted my argument.
This did nothing for my raging imagination, though. He showed up in my dreams, fucking and loving me like he once did. My subconscious was vibing hard on the resurgence of the most intense chemistry I’ve ever experienced. My waking mind was replaying scenarios in which his current relationship would come to a natural, mutual end, and he would seek out his former spot in my arms so we could pick up where we left off.
All of this has me noodling over whether fully cutting off ties with a (non-abusive) ex is the right way to cope with heartbreak. Clearly, whatever feelings I’ve stifled for the past two years have remained in some liminal place, waiting for me to let them back into my life. The love and attraction that once raged so strongly through me is still very much alive, and now it’s empowered with the gift of hindsight. And even if a proper relationship couldn’t be resurrected, I bet there are some great opportunities for some sultry ex-sex that I would never say no to, given the chance.
I mean, talk about hot. Fucking a person who already knows how to get you off, but has been out of your life long enough to feel like new? That’s something I definitely want to try before I lack the energy to maintain my freakish libido, and I would not hate if this ex was the one who proved this theory right.
If the stars align, maybe I’ll be able to write that Penthouse letter, and you can all live vicariously through my pussy. Until then, I’ll savor the Snapchats he probably shouldn’t be sending, daydream situations that bring us together by fate — and, of course, masturbate furiously to the thoughts of our wild, relentless lovemaking.