Addictive - Sex Stories

Addictive

I thought of him again last night. His image always comes to me when I’m alone, vulnerable. I remember the way we met, the way we lived. I was always so in awe of him, so breathlessly excited that he actually wanted me. I thought of the weight of his arm around my shoulders, the smell of tobacco, whisky and cheap aftershave. The bar he used to go to, that awful seedy place, all men except for the odd whore on the pull. I never felt comfortable there with the leering glances and the snide whispers. He was cheap. He wasn’t a gentleman. And yet, he made me feel like a lady. I liked being with him, I liked the odd, jealous glances we’d get from other people, the way their eyes looked from me to him and back again, like they wished they could be us. It wasn’t a lot of fun. There were fights, big ones, broken plates and vases, the television screen shattered in the corner. The side window in the hall is still boarded up. I never got around to fixing it. I should have. I think of him every single time I walk past it. Sometimes I wonder why we went at it for so long. It didn’t work. It was the most dysfunctional thing I ever got myself into. My family knew it. They didn’t want anything to do with him and when they figured we weren’t breaking up any time soon, communication ran low. We were a big family, they wouldn’t miss me. Besides, I liked him more. I hadn’t known him as long but he had this magnetism, this invisible force that drew me into him and as a result, his world. It ...

... was dark. Alcohol and moodiness, the scrawled drawings on the floor, he was like a storm. Not a bad storm. The summer storm that you wait weeks for, the sky getting more ominous with each passing day and when it finally arrives, the thunder and lightning breaking through the heat, the huge, warm raindrops, you want it to go on forever. But it can’t. Maybe I knew we weren’t going to last from the moment it began. That line he used. It’s not the way you pick a girl up. “Do you wanna come home with me?” One line. No preamble. I shouldn’t have taken the bait. I should have scoffed in that bitchy way I learnt from the girls at work, I should have swung around on my chair and turned my back on him. I should have started flirting with the suit on my left. But I didn’t. I just stared at him. He was an imposing, impressive figure of a man. He had that laidback, rock-star vibe, the stubble, the heart-stopping grin, the eyes that just wouldn’t stop looking at me. I felt like a teenager. Sweaty palms and a racing heartbeat. Self-conscious all of a sudden. Is my blouse straight? My hair looks good, doesn’t it? Nothing on my teeth? No, I haven’t eaten since lunch . All those thoughts rushing through my mind and for the whole time he just stood there, waiting. He was out of place there at that bar. It was Friday evening, happy hour, all the people from offices, in suits and pencil skirts, causal flirtation, the constrained atmosphere of people trying to have a good time and downing as much ...