I awoke to my game face, smeared all over my pillow. I stared as the mess of it provoked me to be ashamed. But I wasn't. I looked at the man in my bed, the one that I tried to get rid of so desperately the night before. I'm used to sleeping alone. Sleeping next to someone is a very intimate act, vulnerable and prone. His lifeless limbs were draped so comfortably over my pillows and I still wished he would disappear.
I had called him by the wrong name the night before, while we were fucking. I was about to come, totally enjoying myself and thinking of the one who really excited me. Then I heard the name slip past my lips. The brink of orgasm gave way to panic. So quickly that it almost felt involuntary, I began to fake a boisterous orgasm, in the hope that the throes of my pleasure would distract and affirm that in that moment, he was the only man that existed for me. This was lame, and I knew in my heart of hearts that it sealed the deal for him. We would never work.
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