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God, she was my addiction that night. I felt a little less alone. I even daydreamed about calling her tomorrow, meeting her back at the motel and screwing her again in the crappy bed.
It didn’t take long for my boxers to come off and for me to climb on top of her. I tossed on a condom, and right before I slid into her, she yipped.
“No, wait!” A fear shot through those qingci eyes. Her hands flew over her mouth, and tears welled up in her eyes. “I can’t. I can’t.”
I paused, frozen over her. Guilt sucker punched my stomach. She didn’t want to have sex with me. “Oh God. I’m sorry. I thought—”
“I’m in a relationship,” she said. “I’m in a relationship.”
Wait.
“What?” I asked.
“I have a boyfriend.”
Boyfriend?
Crap.
She was a liar.
She was a cheater.
She has a boyfriend.
I removed myself from over her, and sat up on the edge of the bed. My hands gripped the sides of the mattress, and I listened to her moving around. The sheet winkled with her every move.
She softly spoke, “I’m sorry. I thought I could do it. I thought I could go through with it, but I can’t. I thought it would be easy with you, ya know? To let go, and let loose. I just thought I could forget for a while.”
Not turning to her, I shrugged. “No big deal.” Pushing myself up from the mattress, I moved toward the bathroom. “Be right back.”
The door closed behind me and I ran my hands across my face. I removed the condom from my cock and tossed it into the garbage can before I leaned against the door and stroked myself.
It was pathetic.
I’m pathetic.
I thought about cocaine as I jerked myself. The strong rush it used to deliver to warm me up. The feeling of complete peace and bliss. I stroke harder, remembering how it took away all of the problems, all of the fears, all of the struggles. I felt as if I was on top of the world, unstoppable. Euphoria. Jubilation. Love. Euphoria. Jubilation. Love. Euphoria. Jubilation. Love.
Hate. Hate. Hate.
Deep breath.
I released.
I felt empty in every way possible.
Turning on the sink, I washed my hands and stared into the mirror, looking deep into my own eyes. Brown eyes that weren’t important. Brown eyes that were sad. Bro
wn eyes that were overshadowed by a vague depression.
I shook off the feeling, dried my hands, and returned to her.
She was getting dressed, wiping her eyes.
“You’re leaving?” I asked.
She nodded.
