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ONE NIGHT STAND GAME BEST ENDING SELECTION SKIN
My skin prickled in a way it hadn’t before as I sat on the edge of the bed, Ryan still scanning my face apprehensively, the heat between my legs suddenly chasing through every part of me. Desires that ran so deep they hooked onto every circuit in my system, so that when I finally tapped into one, my entire system lit up like a forgotten merry-go-round in a boarded-up theme park, all at once spinning and dancing and erupting with deafening song and candescent light.
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It was about the liberation that came with it, to have desires met I’d convinced myself were insignificant in the final stages of my flailing marriage. It was in that moment it occurred to me that this wasn’t about sex at all. They’re happy tears,” I murmured between sobs, un-sexily using my hand as a tissue to mop my mascara-strewn cheeks and drippy red nose.
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“No, it’s hard to explain, but take it as a compliment. “Is everything, er…okay? Did I…hurt you?” he asked, the shakiness in his voice revealing a sudden vulnerability. Though the sex itself was disappointingly fleeting on account of Ryan’s overexcitement at the event of being invited to an hour of NSA sex with a sexually frustrated woman on a mission to vent, I found myself sobbing hysterically afterwards, prompting him to stop re-buttoning his shirt and cautiously cradle an arm around me. Moments later my phone let off a ping and a text blinked back at me. He seemed almost too perfect for the experiment at hand – not attractive or charismatic enough that I’d end up developing a crush on him, but good enough with his lips that it was a fairly sure bet he’d provide a satisfactory catalyst for my stress relief. Cute, though not really my type, we’d had a date a couple of weeks back that had been devastatingly tiresome until he’d leaned in to kiss me and sexual electricity had ignited between us so unexpectedly we’d behaved like a couple of teenagers frantically making out behind the school sheds before calling it a night and never texting one another again. I mulled the thought for a while, slowly flipping it back and forth until it resembled a well-done pancake, then I got out my phone and began scrolling through my address book. Her point was almost too good to be true. Men do it to us all the time when they use us for sex then never call again. “You mean Down To…F*ck? Can I really do that?” I asked, suddenly emboldened with the excitement of a child waiting for permission to begin tearing open my gifts on Christmas morning. “Then why don’t you just text up a guy in your phone and ask him if he’s DTF,” she said, punctuating her sentence with an assured full-stop, rather than lilting her voice up into a question mark on the final syllable. She stared back blankly at me with the same nonchalant expression I’d expect had I told her I’d just had a particularly satisfying email inbox cleanup. I know I’m not supposed to dive back into bed with anyone this early on, but I need sex.” It was during a particularly stressful Friday afternoon at work when the sexual frustration felt as though it might bubble over and spill out of me as I fumbled to find words to string a sentence on my keyboard – the keys S, E, X, tauntingly blinking back at me – I confessed to a younger female colleague, “I can’t take this anymore. Or more precisely, all the fornication I’d been missing out on over the last 12 months as the wheels had steadily fallen off our intimacy wagon in favour of platonic Netflix sessions on the couch with mumbled exchanges in between mouthfuls of shitty takeout and passive-aggressive Angry Birds battles on our phones. When I became newly single after disembarking from an emotionally taxing seven-year marital cruise, I had one thing, and one thing alone, on my mind. Sometimes you need to taste all the colours of the rainbow…