The Last Time
I know tonight is goodbye. I didn’t let myself think about it as I drove over here this morning, or I knew I would crumble and compromise on my needs just to keep the relationship afloat for a little longer. We have given it a damn good go, me and him, but we have come to the end of the road. This road we have been walking together has forked, and we have to go in different directions.
I didn’t plan to end up in bed with him after all the hours of talking. After the conclusion that there really is no way forward. At best, I expected a bittersweet hug and a tearful farewell. At worst, I envisioned slamming doors, screamed grievances, scorched earth. There’s none of any of that. Just the wistful sadness that comes with an inevitability you’ve both been putting off for far too long.
The disentangling will begin in earnest tomorrow. Tonight, though, we will say goodbye in the only way we know how. People talk a lot about first time sex. First time ever, first time with a new person. First time with a person of a particular gender, or trying a particular act. We don’t talk anywhere near as much about last times. But that’s what this is.
I don’t want him to be gentle with me. This isn’t a tearful what-could-have-been, but a last hurrah. We both understand the urgency without needing to say it. He reaches for me, and I for him, and we devour each other as though we are each trying to imprint ourselves forever on the other’s memory. His three-days-unshaven face is scratchy against my cheek when we kiss, and his fingernails claw at my skin as he pulls my jeans and then my panties off.
He wraps his arms around my legs and pulls me to him, burying his face in my vulva and inhaling the scent of me. His tongue finds my clit, circling and flicking at it in exactly the way that makes my toes curl and my eyes roll back in my head. There’s nothing like sex with someone who has known you, your body, and all its quirks for years.
He slides a finger, and then two fingers, inside me, curling them to push against my G-spot. I hear myself make a sound somewhere between a whimper and a growl.
I reach for him. “Fuck me,” I plead. “Just fuck me.” I need to feel him inside me. One more time. He reaches for a condom from the nightstand and hands it to me. I tear it open and unroll it over his hard cock the same way I’ve done thousands of times before. Then his hands are on mine, pinning me beneath him, and his cock is sliding into my cunt. I squeeze my muscles around him, relishing his moans and the way his eyes flash with desire. We hold each other’s gaze and his hand slips into mine.
“Rub your clit,” he commands, bending to kiss me. My hand slips down between our bodies and a gasp escapes my lips as my fingers find the right spot. For a short, blissful time – maybe a minute, maybe five, I don’t know – there is nothing but sensation, nothing but him and me and this moment.
The memories unspool like a roll of film. The first time he went down on me. That time we decided to try swinging, but quickly realised it wasn’t really our scene. The mutual discovery of how much we both loved it when he spanked me. Our experimentations with pegging and double penetration and fisting. All the years of experiences and experiments, of love and lust and laughter, all come down to this. This last time.
In the moment before I orgasm, I remember the way he cupped my face in his hands the first time he kissed me. My climax tips him over the edge, too, and I feel his heartbeat pulsing through his cock as he comes inside me. Neither of us says anything. What use are more words now?
I let myself cuddle with him just long enough for our hearts to steady, then extricate myself from his arms and his bed and his life.
I do not let the tears fall until I am driving down the motorway at 70 miles per hour, the breakup playlist I preemptively made blasting at full volume.