I could not push him out of my thoughts always on that third day after we had Sex. It didn’t matter what else was going on in my life. Nonstop images of our sexual encounters replayed over and over in my mind. Sex is not the right word to describe what we had done. We didn’t make Love or simply have Sex, we fucked. Fucked like we were the stars of a porno video.

Fuck is often used as a lazy, vulgar word, but fucking was the only word that could accurately describe what we did. We were not friends with benefits, we were not friends. We were not lovers, because that would imply a deep passion shared.

I’m not sure how this happened to me. How had I let this man into my life? I was thirty-seven years old, recently divorced, and employed in a respected profession.

Three days after, I realized that even though I didn’t think it was possible to be one, once you left your teenage years, I was his slut.

I never thought about him immediately after we fucked because I was blissfully lost in the glorious wave of multiple orgasms. My body was still pounding, my legs still weak. I would be sore for days after, but in the moment, I felt as though I’d been caught in a tsunami and survived. I was delirious.

I walked him to the door, we shared a sweet goodbye kiss, he waved as he drove away. I was disheveled, wearing a robe that barely covered my bottom, thrown on in case the neighbors happen to look out their window. After our fucking, I didn’t care what I looked like.

I was a grown woman just a few years shy of my fortieth birthday. My twenty-year-old self would have been disgusted by all the different positions I’d just engaged in. My forty-year-old self will be thrilled that during this time I opened up to embrace the uncomfortable. I would become more sexually alive than any other time in my life.

He is British, but I was not an American who swooned over his accent. It was not his accent that turned me on. He was in his early forties, also recently divorced. He was smart, we shared a lot of the same interests. He was over the top vulgar, he said the crudest things to me.

He said, “I’m going to fuck your sloppy wet cunt.”

He wanted me on my knees, he commanded, “Tell me, come on beg me, let me know how much you want to suck on my big hard cock.”

He never hurt me, but he’d pull on my hair when he was in my mouth. He’d slap my Ass when he took me doggy.

“Your filthy whore cunt is my cum bucket.”

Right, before he orgasmed, he said, “Tell me you need it!”

I whispered, “Fill me up with your Hot cum.”

He pumped faster, harder, I moaned and with true urgency said, “Fuck me!”

I would have been offended if those words were uttered by another man. Livid, if a man dared to slap my bottom. When he said these horrible things or got a bit rough, I immediately felt arousal building deep inside. Words came out of me that I couldn’t imagine thinking, never mind speaking out loud.

When he talked dirty to me, I wanted him even more. He knew it.

He has shown me bits of his real self, usually when resting after his first Orgasm. He was loud when he orgasmed, he would groan and moan, thrusting his cum as deep into me as possible. Immediately after his release, he was affectionate.

He needed to feel me close, holding him right after he orgasmed. We talked about real life, about our lives. He always caught himself after a few minutes becoming too vulnerable, too exposed. He’d turn the conversation back to Sex. He would kiss me all over, no blue pill required, his cock grew harder than before. I would Orgasm several more times before we’d collapse in shear exhaustion.

After he would be silent for weeks, no calls, no texts, not even an email. Nothing.

Three days after fucking him, was when I desired him most intensely. I liked to imagine that I was on his mind and he was thinking, I need to talk to her. I have to see her. In reality, there would be nothing, not a hint that he cared.

I would fantasize about having an elegant dinner with him in a seaside resort. I envisioned hiking deep in to the cool, dark forest. I would daydream, building elaborate scenarios in my mind on how he would introduce me to his kids and how he would ask me to move in with him.

Honestly though, I accepted the truth that my dreams would never come true.

Three days after our raw dirty Sex, he was all I could think about. By day five, the good ache in my hips from vigorous Sex, had faded. He was almost gone from my thoughts. Just a ghost of something astonishing from the past.

By day seven, I would get distracted from my fantasies. Other men would contact me through the same online dating site that originally connected me to him. I’d meet these strangers for dinner or maybe coffee, but it didn’t turn into more.

I’d get busy with an unexpected challenge at work. The weeks flew by. I no longer felt the lingering sensation of his lips on my body.

A text message would show up out of nowhere, a quick hello, followed by five words,

I want to fuck you.

The first time this happened, I rebelled against his gall. The nerve of him treating me with such indignity. I told him to get lost. I told him that I was not interested. He knew it was a lie. He didn’t push, he knew just how long to wait before he’d text again.

I want to fuck you.

Three days later, he walked into my home and before he said hello, he kissed my lips as his hand slid between my legs. He entered my wet, waiting Pussy with two fingers. I was lost.

I spent hours of my time trying to find the right word to describe what we felt towards each other, of what we were when we were together, but I could never define it. Desire comes to mind. Passion, but it’s not true. Desire and passion didn’t define what continued to draw us together. Lust, close but not quite right.

There was a raw, almost primal attraction to him on my part. He is not classically handsome, he is attractive, but this was not about his looks. It was his physical presence, rugged, strong. His body entangled in mine took me far outside of my ordinary, everyday life. I couldn’t rationalize a reassuring explanation of what I was to him. I didn’t imagine that he had trouble attracting women. I had to recognize that I was just a body when he needed it to be rougher, when he needed a hard fuck.

Almost a year into this continuing cycle, I never asked him what he wanted from me. He never offered an explanation or an excuse. I didn’t need one when we were in bed. I’d often chastise myself, why couldn’t this just be what it was, why did I feel the urgent need to define it?

Three days after, I was always confused and sometimes angry. How could he take so much out of me, bring me so much pleasure, and then disappear for weeks?

Two years ago, I finally blocked his number and deleted his contact details from my phone. I moved to a different online dating site.

Last week, while shopping with my boyfriend at one of the massive home improvement stores, I saw him with an attractive woman. I was ashamed of the relief I felt, when I saw that she was not a younger woman in her twenties, but that she appeared to be in her forties. She looked a bit like me. How could I be so shallow?

They were in the checkout line directly next to our line. He saw me.

I couldn’t avoid his eye contact. Our partners were both turned, placing items from the cart on to the belt. He smiled, nodded, and then turned back to the cashier. They walked out of the store ahead of us. As I climbed up into the cab of my boyfriend’s Ranger, I watched as they drove off in his dark Mercedes.

Three days later, I received a text from an unknown number.

I want to fuck you.

Looking at this text, I should have been angry but I felt excitement. I felt heat flowing through my body, my heart beating faster. I thought well maybe just once more, why not?

It took a several minutes, but I pressed block this caller and then I swiped to delete.