The living room was dark, quiet. 1:15 AM. Nothing to eat, except for a protein shake -chocolate, which was okay- and some salty peanuts. I sat on my sofa, exhausted. Still no answer from my ex. Fuck it. That was expected. Fucking someone new that night, not that much.
I arrived to her flat in Vesterbro at around 9. She told me she had been drinking some red wine. I could tell for her black lips and tipsy behavior. It lowered the pressure and eased up the situation. Two strangers, brought together by boredom and poor life decisions. “So be it,” I thought.
She didn’t look like her Tinder profile pictures, but the conversation flowed nicely and it was interesting enough. We both seemed really relaxed, considering. So the whole sex part, although a bit forced, didn’t feel weird. It was just what it was.
Her body was slim, but rock hard, very muscular. Besides that, not many surprises. The sex was good and she came hard, intensely. Twice. There is something to that that I never get tired of. A man’s orgasm is not spectacular. It’s quick and obvious. But the female orgasm, now that’s something. I’m always glad when I help them achieve it. “Mr. Good Fuck.” Can’t say that with a straight face, although my track record is very consistent. Not that anyone cares, really.
I rode my bike home late last night. It was very cold outside. Walked in my flat to my usual loneliness. To missing my ex and complaining about the non-stop meaningless sex. To sleeping like shit and waking up with my body aching all over. To looking back at last year’s stories and getting all existential about life. Full of shit.