Ellie told me the biggest dick she had ever taken was Myra’s.
Ellie had been a freshman at the time. Myra had been a junior at Northeastern and apex predator of Boston lesbian undergrad Tinder. She had a different girl for every day of the week and she had the largest strapon in the universe. She turned these young girls all the way out. Lived every man’s dream. Myra made me good at sex, Ellie told me once.
I wonder how Myra is doing, she said, curling her claws around my hand as I walked her back to her trash-filled silver Prius.
Yeah, I bet she’s doing fucking fine. I said: you just miss the dick.
No, Ellie said. Myra was great. The strap was just a bonus.
Ellie was on her way to see Rahul. Well, to go home, shower, shave, change her sheets, and see Rahul. Rahul was her Cool Boyfriend. She had to change her sheets because his place was almost intolerable. He still had his mattress on the floor. I envied him.
On Sunday, she took shrooms with her Rich Boyfriend (me) and we fell into a trance together. In one dream I was a primitive lifeform in ancient shallows and her heartbeats were the undulating waves. In another we crawled out of the ocean together and lay on distant sands, fins turning to legs, gills turning to lungs, learning to bask in the naked glare of the sun. In the starkest dream of all I was a suitor at dusk in the primordial forest, and we chased after her as she danced, sinuous and majestic, eyespots shining by twilight, predator and prize and princess and prey. After we awoke I played her the playlist I made about her. You Belong To The World was too much for her. No, I told her, it’s inverted. What it really means is: the world belongs to you.
On Monday she cuddled a baby, went rollerskating, and partied with her Cool Boyfriend. The arty Harvard girls wanted to fuck him but he had eyes only for her.
On Tuesday her Rich Boyfriend (me again) took her to omakase. She liked it. Oh my god, she said, I’m going to take a while to process this.
On Wednesday her Cool Boyfriend persuaded the lead singer of one of her favorite bands to give them a private performance. Fucking Cool Boyfriend, how the fuck am I supposed to match that?
Apparently she tells Bertie, the wine director at her work, everything. He doesn’t judge. Good for her though. Must be pretty great having two boyfriends, I say. She says she needs to get a girlfriend too.
She had always told me that she would rather have girlfriends than boyfriends. Her only real relationship had been with a woman, in college, during the long quiet of COVID. Later, after she’d started seeing me, she had a whirlwind romance with a guy she hated. He assaulted me, she told me. Before she had his abortion I got to hit it raw just once. It was exquisite. That was when I started to feel like she liked me. But that was some time ago, and lately I felt she was just using me for sex.
You already know she doesn’t shave. She doesn’t need to. She’s too sleek. Her fur is so soft. I love to caress it.
The problem was that she just knew too many people in Cambridge’s slut triangle. I ran into her friend Char in Inman. Locked eyes with her insane bestie Cece outside Shay’s. The ex she hated had lived a few blocks away from me, Rahul lived a few blocks away in the other direction, Blair had been upset to see her car outside my place, and now every beaten-up silver Prius I saw made me jump. You have any idea how many beaten-up silver Priuses there are in Cambridge? There’s even more than you fucking think, they’re everywhere.
Near the end of our relationship we’d gone to Vermont to watch the eclipse together. Trying to get ahead of the traffic, we drove up the night before and stayed at an empty ski slope. At night we smoked by the chairlift and held hands and looked at the stars. She was thinking about Rahul the whole time. A few nights before she’d texted me elliptically from his place, horny and anxious, trying to tell me in her cat language how badly she wanted to cheat on me. Maybe that was actually why she wanted to go up the night before, to get away from guilty feelings. She got a fly in her eye and the drive back was long and she got fussy. But I loved it. I loved holding her hand and listening to her talk. I already knew that she was falling for someone else.
She couldn’t be pinned down, she told me. She didn’t want children; she didn’t want to settle; she wanted to have passionate love affairs and keep moving on. A solitary creature. She’s too graceful. I hadn’t meant to like her but she was too damn good. I guess she hadn’t meant to like me either. But in the end I liked her more.
When we’d gotten closest - when we were writing for each other, making music for each other, cooking together, doing laundry together, comfortable together - I’d known it couldn’t last. The moment I thought I had her she was already slipping away. She’s too elusive. The most dangerous game.
She curls up contented after I’ve pounded her juicy, muscular, delicious pussy. I want to stay up and whisper to her and stroke her and listen to her purr but she’s bored of me and just wants to sleep. I tell her I love her but her eyes are closed and she doesn’t respond.