I stumble in the front door, drenched to the skin from a long and glorious cycle through central London, fighting the downpour and dodging past Boris bikes, punk tunes blasting into my left ear. Exhausted and satisfied and aching all over: my cunt hurts from getting well and truly fucked. As I walk in, I’m accosted by my conscience, who is as steaming angry as I am post-fuck happy, with the words ‘you fucked your ex’ on its lips.
What have you been up to, young lady?
I’m not exactly young, you fucker. I’m a grown adult and I can make my own choices.
Ooh, someone’s feeling defensive! I know exactly what choices you made, can you justify them?
Yes. No. I don’t know.
You fucked your ex-boyfriend, didn’t you? Go on, say it out loud and tell me you think that was a good idea.
I was horny. He smelt good. He was being really nice to me.
He was probably in emotional turmoil. What makes you think you can just fuck him like everything’s normal and fine, without blowing up this fragile détente and ruining fucking everything?
Why do I always have to be the grown-up? Why is it me who gets a conscience-laden bollocking for this, as if I’m the one who knows what I’m doing? As if I have a fucking plan? Why am I the fucking evil temptress here? He’s hot – he deliberately looked hot. He smelt good – on purpose. He hugged me and held me close and sniffed my neck and I fucking knew his dick was getting hard.
Oh. So he was asking for it?
Yes. No. Fuck off.
You fucked your ex, even after you promised yourself you wouldn’t, and now he’ll be sad and fucked-up.
No he won’t. I asked him. He told me he was fine, and it was fine.
Like he’s going to tell you that you’ve really fucked him up.
Why does no one worry that he’s fucked me up?
You’re the strong one. Everyone says so. You know what you’re doing and what you want. You know all the tricks.
Like not staying over, not letting people sleep in your bed. Keeping men at arms length so you don’t accidentally fall for them.
That’s not a trick, it’s a preference.
Besides, I can’t help but notice it’s tomorrow. You stayed over.
It was raining. I was drunk. It wasn’t safe to ride home in the dark. Besides, we’d fucked three times and he hadn’t come yet, and I really really really wanted his cum.
You’re a disgrace.
Fuck you. Listen: you’ve fucking met me. You literally live inside my head. You know what I’m like and what I do. You knew I was going to visit a man who – despite all The Stuff – I am still wildly in love with. You knew he would probably make us cocktails and we’d have a nice time, and I’d almost certainly hurt for him. You knew there’d come a point in the evening where he’d offer me a hug and just that simple act of hugging would make my cunt ache. And thanks to you…
Me? Oh so it’s my fault is it?
Yeah. Because you tell me that fucking him is forbidden. And there’s nothing on this planet that is hotter than forbidden. Except perhaps that moment when I was lying on my back on top of him on the sofa, with his erection crushed between my thighs, when he pinched my nipples tightly so it hurt just the right amount and held me there, with this aura of control and dominance and…
You disgust me.
Or the bit where he made me bend over in front of the mirror, on tiptoes so my cunt was tight and he’d have something to punish me for if I wobbled or failed to hold position, then fucked me so brutally – so brutally – that I could feel the bruises forming on my hips and deep in the back of my cunt. When he wrapped a t-shirt round my throat or when he told me…
‘I’m gonna fuck those other men out of you.’
You are incorrigible.
I know. Look. Just because you’ve not been needed for the last nine years…
OK, seven-or-so years.
Fine, five. Look, just because you’ve not had to bollock me like this for a while, that doesn’t mean you get to forget who I actually am. I am the girl who likes fucking. I am the girl who is disastrously horny, and who makes bad fucking choices for the sake of my greedy cunt. I am the girl who is willing to throw her own emotional progress onto the shitheap just to get dick the way I like it, and who is willing – no, eager – to sacrifice ‘the right thing to do’ on the raging bonfire of ‘what feels nice in my cunt.’ I know it’s bad and I know it’s wrong and I know it makes me pathetic and weak, but I also know that you can no more stop me being this person than you can teach me to sprout wings and fly.
You fucked your ex.
And also he fucked me.
You started it.
Fine. I started it. But he invited me over – what did he think was going to happen?
Piss-poor blame-shifting, mate.
He did invite me, and he knew I couldn’t say no. So as I say, why do I always have to be the grown-up? Why am I supposed to be the strong one? All the evidence suggests that if I smell an opportunity to fuck, I will take it. Especially when it’s someone who will bang me so viciously I don’t know if my cunt will ever recover. Who’ll grab fistfuls of my hair and yank me hard down onto his cock. Who’ll stare at me with heavy, dark eyes as he fucks me like it’s punishment. Who tells me I look good and really fucking means it. Who gets hard when he hugs me so I can feel his erection twitching through his shorts and it makes my cunt ache in that painful-happy way and…
Oh for fuck’s sake. Just go have a wank about it then.
Thanks, I will. Now… where’s the other one?
What other one?
There’s an opposite version of you, isn’t there? The one who tells me to be kind to myself. The one who dispenses forgiveness?
She couldn’t face it today. She says you don’t deserve her.