The ceaseless battle between sense and sensibility becomes here a fierce fight between sexual drive and sensibility, mixed with my usual kinky and naughty irony. What to do when an ex who treated you pretty badly in the past but who also fucked you like none else, shows up again? What if he has been both an absolute asshole and an extraordinary lover; would you offer him another chance? Retreat in pride or surrender to pleasure? That’s the question. Something is rotten in my dirty mind. Pride should prevail if you risk relapsing into the trap of a born cheat. If, otherwise, you consciously know you can enjoy a sexcapade without any strings attached, the legendary zipless fuck as Erica Jong called it in the early Seventies, then why should you ever abstain from an orgasm? NB. This dilemma only arises when talking of mind-blowing orgasms, which more often than not happen with intriguing and dangerous men, who royally misbehaved and served you up their normal range of shitty actions such as promising eternal love to then disappear, massive lies, other women … Sooner or later, we all have been there and met one, or two, or three, of these men. It is a kind of rite of passage most women experience. These men are both nasty and unforgettable, because most of the times assholes are great fucking lovers. Case in point, this is my experience. Two years ago I fell, consciously and willingly, prey to a fascinating top-notch bastard, an actor, assholes’ ultimate profession as it forces them to lie as a vocation, therefore the risk of becoming a casualty with these professional deceivers is extremely high, even for us smart women. He was a movie actor, not a star though but with all the attitude of one; a wandering spirit, always high on wine; a chronic liar; a captivating smooth-talker/operator; a serial womanizer; a seasoned bastard and an outstanding lover. The kind of man who makes you lose your head, your senses and your lingerie with just a single line – transporting you in a thrilling X-rated-movie adventure, in a word and sex marathon, in a decadent retro fuck-festival. We met in the magical and explosive setting of a small Mediterranean island while he was shooting a movie there. And our mutual passion erupted wild and extreme since our first sexual encounter. We learnt to know each other by fucking each other like damned souls, everywhere and anytime. Ours was a body language; we laid our senses bare, speaking the unvarnished truth of lust with raw words. The first time we talked we were in a bucolic wine-bar set in a luxuriant garden facing the mighty and active volcano. He was sitting at a table alone and I in another one reading a delightfully light book called Piccoli Amori (Little Love Affairs) by Franziska zu Reventlow, a German feminist avant-garde sexually liberated writer of the early Twentieth century, who was nicknamed the Bohemian Countess. I was the one to initiate the conversation: “You should climb the volcano. It is a unique experience.” Him: “I’d rather avoid crossing dangerous trails. But, after all, I am talking with you…” Amused, I immediately fired back: “I can assure you that between those two trails, the one leading up to the volcano is by far the smoothest.” With a faint smile, he answered: “I harbor no doubt whatsoever about that.” My animal instinct felt a communion of lustful senses. We had already sniffed each other; I had felt my sex pulsating, which only happens when my chemistry reacts with the right ingredients. I won’t dwell here on the most intimate details of our sex-making (they absofuckinglutely deserve a novel of their own), yet I would like to enumerate the litany of bullshits and far-fetched excuses he served me up over the course of our short-lived yet long-fucked relationship:
- Right away, it was ‘I love you’, ‘I want to marry you’. I only had to Google him to discover he was already married with kids.
- The asshole, therefore, was not single and was already cheating on his wife with another woman. Aside from me.
- ‘I don’t love her. I left her.’ Obviously, they are still together. We are not.
- ‘My love, wait form me. Tomorrow I will come to you.’ I have never seen him or heard from him again.
I spent a year feeling seduced and obsessed by this man. Everything was so tightly linked to the primordial sexual attraction between us. I nevertheless know myself and after getting out of it, after healing and coming to my ‘sensitivity’, the above-mentioned risk of falling again is very low. Never say never, yet I feel I can enjoy those mind-blowing orgasms without losing my mind or my heart. Other organs are, indeed, very willing to be taken. But that’s because I will take them with me when I will shut the hotel door behind me and him. This is the game I consciously chose to play, knowing its rules, accepting its risks, laying bare my innermost desires. Letting it go is just a pious hope. After all, when the going gets tough, the tough get going. And I love it tough. Hard. Solid. Until the next match … and Miss Robbie’s next sexcapade.