Matter of Trust

There’s a spider on the ceiling, directly above me. If it fell it would land on my chest and, well, that would be the end of this.

I hope it falls.

Despite a rather aggressive case of arachnophobia - I’d prefer a spider landing me to this.

It’d make a good story: This guy was going down on me and a spider dropped on me, so I kicked him in the head, ran from room screaming and we never saw each other again. At least that would be better than: The guy was the absolute worst fucking head giver and I couldn’t wait for it to be over.

‘Ow,’ I say, flinching and frowning.

‘Sorry,’ he says, jovial. ‘I should have shaved.’

No shit. It feels like he’s scrubbing my vagina with steel wool. And on freshly waxed skin too, there’s nothing to protect me, no barrier between me and the stubble.

I feel like I’m being eaten, and not in the good way. Like a dead zebra being devoured by a lion. No, there’s no majestic grace to this. More like a hyena. Ugly, messy munching.

I take a deep breath, try not to squirm. My hand flies to my forehead and I draw in a sharp breath, hold it, release it, take in another. He probably thinks this panting and flinching is a good response. ‘I need to stop,’ I blurt out, suddenly flushed with anxiety.

‘What?’ he asks, his head popping up from between my legs. ‘Why? Did I do something wrong?’

You did everything wrong. ‘I have to leave, I’m sorry. I just… need to go.’

The poor bastard looks genuinely shocked. ‘Can you at least tell me why?’

Because I shouldn’t find a pap smear more enjoyable than this. ‘I think I can feel my period starting. I’m just really uncomfortable. I need to go home.’ I get off the bed, pick my clothes up off the floor and put them on as quickly as possible, trying not to appear frantic.

‘Well, could you just suck me off for a bit then? It’s the least you could do.’ He signals to his rock-hard cock, pointing up at me expectantly. ‘You can’t leave me like this.’

‘Actually, I can, and if you disagree, we’re going to have a problem.’ I'm too pissed off to care about sensibilities - my clit feels like it’s had a thorough going over with an orbital sander.

‘Well, can I see you again?’ he asks, following me out of the bedroom, his erection wagging like a front on tail before him.

‘I’ll message you,’ I say.

‘I hope you’re alright. Are you sure it’s not something I did?’

It’s everything you both did and didn’t do. ‘You were fine,’ I say. Coward. ‘I just have to go.’

I lean in to give him a charitable kiss on the cheek but he turns in to it and tries to make out with me, jabbing me in the stomach with his cock. I pull away, hoping he didn’t leave a little shiny stamp on my coat. I pick up my bag. ‘Bye,’ I say apologetically, but I’m so desperate to be out the door I accidentally slam it behind me.

That was horrific. I stand in the elevator, chest tight, giddy with disgust.

I should have told him the truth. Without honest feedback, how can he improve? It’s a disservice to all his future partners not to tell him he’s the absolute worst fucking head giver I’ve ever encountered. The first clue I’d had that he had no idea what he was doing was when he ‘nipped’ me – down there. Then he’d sort of chewed, then sucked so hard I thought my uterus might fly down his throat and choke him to death. And the wetness… dribble running between my cheeks, making the bedsheets cold and damp beneath me. I can still feel it - the only wetness down there. If a vagina could cringe.

That spider is probably watching him wank furiously right now, or maybe he was too crestfallen to maintain an erection after that brutal exit on my part.

I take out my phone and delete Tinder. It's too soon. Ryan still feels like a missing limb. I need to grow myself back, complete my own piece of this silly little puzzle before I can fit flush with somebody else.