“You see…” he would start.

It never mattered what went after it: a stutter of words, a string of sentences, a fluttering of gesticulations… it always ended same. “I’m sorry”. That was my static line. Always sorry. Always apologetic. Always sad and wishing just for once to not be sorry. So now he’s brooding and downing bottles at the bar; or he’s at home with some girl in his bed, desperate to feel masculine and desired. Oow, poor him!

 Like Taylor Swift I knew he was trouble the first day we met, just like I knew he would break my heart. Like Swift too, I decided to be with him all the same. Figured in the end I’ll write a story or two, since unlike Taylor my voice gets croaky when I croon….

“If you say just one word, I can return to my guys and stop driving myself crazy imagining the texture of your voice”

I had been sipping on a mix of chocolate flavoured Magic Moments and Smirnoff Ice, hanging out with my girlfriends, and taking turns bitching about work. My first thought was that his voice was aphrodisiac; that smooth baritone that makes your ears twitch with it’s coy mix of strength and indecent promises. I looked back to the body bearing the voice hovering just above my ear and… the rest is this story. He asked for a danced, and I cocked my head in permission, denying him the voice he so desperately wanted to hear. Eventually he got smart and made me laugh. I was helpless to his humor, so I laughed and watched him stare at me, fascinated.

Months into dating him I realised he is toxic. Venomous! You know, the kind of guy you would choose a cobra over, because you get to see that death is the easy way out. He was good at wiggling out of any and everything. Lord! The man could charm a lion and a deer into dancing the tango happily and fearlessly. And my, was he was smooth! No trails, no proof; just enough bits to make you paranoid and, of course, make you say “sorry” after he had explained his way out of it all. A co-worker’s lipstick here, a flirty bartender’s forgotten phone number in a shirt pocket, a missing condom from the pack taken by one of the guys, a midnight call from a distressed client…. Anyway, I got tired, so I got smart. I stopped pointing out the “bits”; stopped demanding explanations and break ups. I watched the bits, saw it all while giving nothing away, then got too busy to see him, and finally, let him catch me in bed with another man after I had mailed him indubitable evidence of his cheating.

I had planned to watch the look of hatred and shock on his face when he found us but Lord oh Lord! That man hit it so right that I just held him closer and arched to meet his every thrust. When he sensed external presence, I pulled his lips to mine and fed him on the sweet musk flavoured Ice lip candy I had worn just for that purpose. He’d lifted me off the bed still in me, hands covering my butt, kicked the intruder- my ex-boyfriend- out, shoved the door shut, placed me against it still kissing me, and thrust so hard and deep that my toes had curled and I’d been lost to the drenching oblivion of bliss….

So, you see, I can’t be sorry.

Lying sweet lips hurt me, but candied sweet lips got me breathless and cumming. It’s all about the sweet lips, I guess.


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