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Revenge sex is a staple of all modern romance stories. Man breaks woman’s heart or perves on a random woman and all hell breaks loose. Man dares to have a fling or a Tiger-equivalent harem, and his partner runs wild evening the sexual score or vica versa. All forms of revenge are hinged on rectifying real and/or perceived wrongs. In the realm of romantic relationships, the results can range from mild satisfaction to outright horror.
Any act of sexual revenge involves a degree of territoriality. It brings out our inner primate and, according to Dr Yvonne Fulbright:
“Revenge sex involves sexual exploits pursued for the sole purpose of getting back at a lover (or a romantic or sexual interest) who has hurt you in some devastating way. While one of the least talked about trysts in the sexual discourse sphere, it’s actually quite popular. Male or female, lovers have been known to pursue these retaliatory affairs to punish a partner for violating the relationship.”
One of my first forays into revenge sex (No, I didn’t learn the first time), involved hooking up with the potential ‘other’ in response to an indecisive boyfriend. The other was the stand-in or convenient bed buddy, except he wasn’t aware of my revenge sex plan. He simply thought that I relented and decided on a regular sexual hook up with him when really, I just wanted to exact some revenge on my regular beau for being an asshole.
Regular bad-boy/asshole boyfriend of the way, I went out with the substitute. Sure, it’s horrible referring to someone as a substitute, but many of us go experience them at some point or another. Our date unfolded in a dimly lit restaurant. I would have preferred a bar but he preferred a nice dinner and intimate ambiance. It wasn’t as though I wasn’t attracted to my stand-in. He was perfectly capable, if not more than my regular dude, of holding a conversation. We ate, laughed, drank and feasted on an obscene dessert and when I hinted that there’d be more at my place, he couldn’t say no.
With my revenge sex plan scheduled, we flirted and, after the bill was paid, raced to his car for the first of many wonderfully sensual French kisses. When we got into the car, we continued. We used our tongues to seek out hot spots as our hands delved beneath clothes. His hand tried to unfasten my bra but the last thing I wanted was to be half naked in a car and to have other drivers and passengers gawking at me.
The ride to our sexual destination felt like forever. We decided on my place and, sure enough, I had prepared everything I thought I needed to prepare. I had condoms on standby. I swapped the usual everyday sheets to my Egyptian cotton ensemble and spent a decent amount of time eradicating my bedroom of all clutter – including my piles of Cosmo and Playgirl magazines. I didn’t want him to feel insecure in any way.
We settled in my room. When I think about my corny come on now, I cringe but I did tell him to ‘make himself comfortable’. I brought in two glasses of cognac (what was I thinking?) but luckily for me, he wanted to continue. He certainly made sure I was more comfortable by removing my dress. Each painstaking moment drew out my arousal; my dress wasn’t fastened with a zip. He undid more than ten hook buttons to get me naked but when I was bare, I was practically leaping onto him, my mouth ready and salivating at the prospect of tasting his mouth again. I couldn’t shake the fact that he was a far better kisser than the regular beau who wasn’t really a boyfriend, not in the monogamous sense, but as most young impressionable women, that guy we tend to latch on to gains in importance, giving rise to the nauseating phrase of love being blind, except that it isn’t love. Those of us in the romantic phase of adult-escence (just over the age of nineteen) view the first relationships through rose hued glasses.
We made out something stupid. His hands couldn’t stop sliding over my skin. In fact, I grasped his hand and brought it between my legs. Enough already, I thought and eased into the moment as he slid his finger into me. I knelt over his lap as he used his finger rigorously. I closed my eyes and visualized his cock instead. It’s funny, but during these moments, one seldom takes in the physicality of a person or I don’t. For me, it’s about the quality of the seduction or the acts. That isn’t to say that my stand-in needed a brown paper bag over his head. Far from it. He was only two years older than me, regularly attended his martial arts instructional classes and also visited a gym.
I was floating on arousal. My muscles relaxed and even my lips slackened as my vocal chords liberated a series of moans. He was content stroking me within and without, ever watchful and gaining in hardness. When I told him that we had to continue, that he had to fuck me, I expected him to be slightly shocked with me taking the full initiative but he smiled and heavily sighed.
I shifted to enable him to pull his briefs down and slide a condom on his shaft. Then he pulled me back on his lap and impaled me ever so slowly. Then I resumed, slowly rising and falling, my rhythmic bounce liberated a lot of sexual tension that I didn’t realise I carried. As I bounced on his cock, I felt transformed, with my flesh warming up and my most sensitive parts – breasts, nipples and clit – pulsing.
For revenge sex, it wasn’t too shabby.
He wanted to shift. ‘To fuck’ me doggy style. I happily complied, eagerly adopting the standard position, with my thighs parted slightly wider. The seconds leading to the actual moment are the most delicious, especially when on all fours…or so I thought.
I heard his ragged breath behind me and over my upper back as I felt his skin against my buttocks. Then he pressed his cock against me, then into me and I yelped.
He tried to fuck me in the ass without asking me in advance. Immediately edgy, with my stomach tight beyond any comfort, I fell. The next thing I knew I was on the floor nursing a throbbing temple. To this day, I don’t know how I managed it. It ruined the moment and I felt rather embarrassed. At that point, I had never tried anal sex and it was obvious that he did, more often than me. His face reddened and he excused himself to go to the bathroom.
Sex over, I rummaged through my wardrobe for my robe, not that I made wearing a robe a regular habit.
He didn’t end up sleeping over.
The next day, I returned to my regular life, without regular boyfriend.
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