Was It Good for You?

I lie there, in the sweat soaked sheets of another late night romp with my former significant other. What keeps bringing me back here, I don't know. Is it the casual satisfaction that I get? The fact that he's always available? No, I mean always. If I text him, the reply is sent in nanoseconds. Is the the feeling of companionship, to a certain extent?

Am I just one sex crazed bitch?

These are the unanswered questions that I don't spend too much time focusing on, because I have better things to do with my life than try to figure out why I continuously come back to this same trashed apartment almost weekly.

But there is one question I can always answer;

Was it good for you?

And my reply is always no.

Here comes more unanswered questions, such as; why do I always do that? Why do I always have to go and fuck with his emotions? He is good, because if he wasn't, why would I keep coming back? Maybe I like to play games. Maybe I just get some sort of sick satisfaction out of telling him these lies, watching his face fall, and then getting his hopes up once again.

Why do I have to be so sadistic?

Again, more questions that I'm much too busy to answer. All of these questions seem to pop into my head during these acts in which I perform very well, too well, almost. After the act, they linger, but don't stay too long. The moment I whip out a cigarette and a lighter is the moment that they leave my head.

I inhaled the nicotine and felt the smoke fill my lungs, and exhaled, watching the smoke fill the air. He coughed slightly. I was somehow managing to cover myself in the sweat soaked sheets and smoke this lovely cancer stick at the same time. The walls were covered in posters, and pictures. The small TV glowed brightly at a low volume. I stared at the ceiling, feeling bored. I wanted to get up and leave, but something was keeping my body there.

It was like I felt the inevitable question approaching, the words forming in his head and preparing to leave his mouth, to linger in the air until I crushed his hope with lies. I could boost his confidence, but somehow, that doesn't seem like it would fit the routine, and it doesn't push him to try to do better each time.

It's a game, now. And I always win.

"So, baby," Oh, here it comes. "Was it good for you?"

I sucked on the cancer stick, and shot rings of smoke from my mouth. I licked my bottom lip, looked at him, and smiled. Should I tell him the truth? Should I just let him feel satisfied and not have to look at the sadness all over his face, and force myself to feel that guilt for even a millisecond? Should I be a nice person for once in my life?

Heh, nah.

"Nope." I said, and I put my cigarette out on his chest. He looked at me, winced in pain, and then smiled at me. He smiled.

"Alright, whatever you say."

The next five minutes were filled with silence, as I picked my clothes up from the floor, and got dressed. The way he smiled creeped me out a little bit, and it haunted me as I drove home. The way we ended the night (or early morning, technically) wordlessly was just as creepy. I let it haunt me until I fell asleep, and then I acted as if the night before had not occurred.

About a week later, I texted him, with the question, "Wanna hook up?" His reply took seconds to reply as usual, but this time it read; "Nah. Got plans with the girl." To this, I was taken aback and it arose something in me I had never felt before; was this feeling jealousy? No. It couldn't be. I couldn't help but ask "What?", however.

He responded with, "If I was really that bad, then why would you be asking me?"

To that, I had no reply. Karma's a bitch.