What Happens When You Connect With Your Missed Connection

“Do you still wanna have sex?” Game on, I guess.

He calls me “baby” while I blow him, followed by moaning something about loving the way my mouth feels. My hair’s fallen around my face, obscuring his view. He carefully sweeps it all into the hand he has at the back of my head, holding it out of the way without trying to steer the motion of my head. I can’t tell what’s changed but the feel of him in my mouth is different. I’m clearly not drunk enough.

We use the last condom he has and he lasts longer; it feels better than the times before. He still looks scared, as if he’s going to break me. Just as I think he’s finally starting to understand what I want, that he’s going to do this right, he groans loudly and I realize we’re at the end of his performance. We’re trying to be mature but we’re both looking at the bed after he lifts himself off me and pulls out. There’s no mess and I say as much out loud, hoping to assuage any concerns he might have about the state of the sheets beneath me.

“Yeah, there’s no wet spot like that last couple’a times.”

I feel myself pull back a bit, debating if his comment makes me feel ashamed. It doesn’t. I’m naked and even though the sex wasn’t great, maybe the passive-aggressiveness I thought I heard was just imagined — I can’t help it that I get wet; that’s just the way it is.

He looks smug, pulling the condom off with one hand before wiping himself with a towel. For the moment the nagging thought that I don’t really like him goes silent, and we lay together. This moment of false intimacy is what I’ve really been chasing, once I get past the whole sex thing.

Dick runs his hands through my hair, his fingers caught in the inevitable post-sex tangles. His fingers slide up and he moves his fingers back to the root, repeating the combing motion several times before he pauses. “Do you dye your hair?”

There was just enough regrowth from the last time I had my hair done for the roots to be visible from an overhead view. “Yeah, I do” I concede, more sheepish about him calling me out on this than having to scope his mattress for blood earlier.

“What color is it?” These questions are killing my almost-came chill vibes and reminding me of the only thing I needed to forget: that I don’t like him.

“Naturally?”

“Mhm.” His fingers are steadily making their way further down the tresses. I should bring a brush next time so he can get my 100 strokes in before bed.

“I don’t know… blond, maybe?” These statements sound like questions because I honestly don’t know the answer — I’ve been dyeing my hair forever, just like every other girl within a ten-mile radius.

He laughs a little, “You don’t know?”

“I’ve been dyeing my hair for over a decade, so I guess not.” He grumbles something like an “uh huh” and continues to brush his fingers through my hair. He pushes the hair off my forehead and this feels far more intimate than the sex we were just having. I chuckle at the realization.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing really, you just play with my hair a lot.” I don’t mention his tendency to hold my hair away from my face while I’m sucking his dick. Some things are better left unsaid, merely assumed.

 

“You have good hair.”