This is a short story that I wrote many years ago. It holds a special place for me, as it was one of the few times I was really inspired to write non-genre fiction.
Content and language warning.
My friends liked to make fun of John and the situation I was in. I laughed along and gave them fodder for their jokes. I never told them everything, but they never knew. Most of the time, we’d just talk shop. We ran a small discussion group for a psychology class, taking what we learned to the next level. At least, that is what we claimed. None of us had taken a psych class for years.
But, like I said, I never told them everything. I never told them that I craved John’s attention, even when it was degrading. I never told them that he didn’t just pay my bills and let me live with him rent-free. Instead of paying my bills, he would hand me a couple of twenties in the morning. I told them that I could turn him on like he was a teenager, but I never told them what the sex was like. I never told them about his war-games hobby. He loved talking about politics, world economics, warfare and strategies.
He talked about politics and warfare all the time, even when making love. He called it “making love.” I called it sex, or just fucking. He would talk about this obscure stuff while making love, running his hands across my stomach without really seeing it. It was as if that part of our relationship was a job that he was distracting himself from.
He would take off my clothes, and his own, discussing the platforms of various politicians. His caresses moved over my body in time to his monologue on whatever was on CNN that night.
His discourse on foreign policy, speckled through with criticisms of the government officials involved with the
US invasions of whatever small country we had our thumb on, took on a rhythmic quality as he huffed and puffed and thrust. I could always tell when the explosive end was coming when he went into the strategies and tactics of his latest, favorite attack on terrorism. I swear he never saw fireworks when he orgasmed; he surely pictured the A-bomb. The saddest thing, though, was that he really seemed to feel that he gave me something special by doing this to me.