Keeping Score

I see a middle aged man scratching his chubby belly with a self-satisfied look on his face. See skinny legs and a loose-skinned bum. I hear him humming to himself, the way we all hum when we have accomplished something we feel good about are proud of.

He is standing in the bathroom naked, looking at himself in the mirror smiling at his own reflection. I’m in the bedroom, touching the sheets still wet with our sweat and smelling of sex, the sheets, my body, my hair even the air smells like sex. I feel tired, somewhat bored, sweaty and pounded. He yells from the bathroom “I came three times, not bad for a guy close to 50.” I don’t answer, I’m too tired to masturbate, too tired to make myself come even though my body needs it. My pussy is insulted by what he says, neither she nor I have ever met a man who counts his own orgasms, before he counts his woman’s. Never before run into a man who didn’t consider it his greatest honor, accomplishment and duty to first make his woman come. My pussy and I are stunned, shocked we have heard stories about men like this, but never actually met one, what a letdown.

I can see his knocked-knees through the cracks between the bedroom and bathroom doors, I notice how bow legged he is. He is touching his limb dick almost petting it endearingly with self-satisfied pleasure over how well it served him. I’m too tired to gag or get mad and not sure whether I should fuck something, scream at him, laugh at the whole situation or simply cry out of sheer desperate frustration. I sit up in bed with the comforter wrapped tightly around me, as tightly wrapped as my face and upper lip feels. He comes into the bedroom and asks if anything is wrong, I smile and say “no honey nothing is wrong.” He opens the windows and stands there naked enjoying himself in his post-come bliss. I’m cold and my teeth start clattering, he doesn’t notice. I don’t remember what happened next, I think I got dressed and left without saying much. He called me on the cell in less than 10 minutes. I didn’t pick up feeling the anger welling up inside, my car smells clean, it’s the red Jeep I loved, I’m driving on Montana towards PCH west and north to Topanga, get home, roll down the window, cool mountain air on my face, the steep curves of the canyon, my mind racing.

I pull over on the side of the road and pick up the cell phone ringing for the third time since I left. I begin low and deep a mix between a purr and a growl to explain sexual reciprocity to him and I build to a crescendo of absolute screaming about his stupid selfishness and I close with a threat to drive over there and run him over with my car. I may also have snarled something about cutting off his dick. I have had better days and I have had better sex.