Fuck you. Fuck me.

This was the sixth night in a row that she’d engaged in, what could only be described as, ‘spite sex.’

It began on Saturday night. Just as she was pulling up into the strip-club parking lot, her boss called her cell phone to tell her that a busted pipe had flooded the club and to not bother coming in. At first she was going to turn around and head straight home but then, remembering her boyfriend, made two stops to pick up Tylenol and Chinese take-out. When she finally stepped through the door of their apartment, she stopped cold. He was supposed to be sick in bed – that’s why he couldn’t drive her to work. Instead he was spread out naked on the living room floor with his face buried in the curly black hairs of some other woman’s pussy.


Without saying a word, she opened the carton of chicken lomein, dumped it into his $450 Frye boots and left. She refused to cry. Instead, she set out to have as much meaningless sex as she could negotiate, which, in her line of work, was a significant amount.

Driven by a nihilistic rejection of sentimentality, she stalked nightclubs in particular, but was not adverse to grocery stores, public parks or the gym. Barely taking normal considerations of fuckability into account, she offered herself to men (and one woman) with whom – under normal circumstances – she wouldn’t have even made eye contact.

Her latest quarry was more compelling than any of her previous fucks. He was hard and masculine but had a shy, little-boy smile that melted her heart just a little. And he seemed curious about her, asking personal questions and making eye contact when he listened to her answers. For a brief moment, the image of her boyfriend licking the dark-haired woman evaporated.

'I want your cunt,’ he said moving his body into the empty space between them so that only she could hear.

Remembering her mission, she snapped her gum twice and then glanced down at the hard relief of his cock pushing against denim.

Mistaking her downward glance for coyness he started to apologize, but she cut him off.

“Let’s see if my cunt… ” -- she emphasized the ‘t’ so that cunt sounded like something sharp and dangerous -- “wants you.”

She parted her knees and her panties dropped to the beer-stained floor. Then she grabbed his hand and stood up, pushing the bar stool aside. The bar was filling up fast and people were staking out spots from which to view the band. A man with tattooed arms and moussed hair squeezed in next to her, knocked on the wooden bar and wagged a ten-dollar bill at the bartender.

Wiggling her body so she was facing the bar, she smiled at the customer while simultaneously tugging at the stranger’s hand.

“Wha’d’ya need?” the bartender said to the tattooed man.

The rest of the transaction was muffled under the noise of the mic check and she glanced back at her new friend who had nuzzled in behind her. She pushed her ass back into his crotch and felt his hard, constricted cock pushing back. Reaching his arms around her and placing them on the bar he whispered, “When can I have your cunt?”

Dropping her head back on his shoulder she said, “Right now.”

He reached his hand around her hips and slid his hand between her moist thighs.

“No,” she said, tilting her ass north, “fuck me now.”

He gave a furtive glance around the crowded room. The lights had come down and the crowd had turned expectantly towards the stage.

“Do it,” she breathed.

He grabbed his beer with one hand and took a casual swig. With the other hand he unsnapped and unzipped his jeans, releasing his caged cock.

She rolled her hips expectantly and, just as the first chords of an electric guitar screamed and the crowed roared, felt him plunge into her sopping cunt.

Her eyes rolled briefly back into her head as he eased himself slowly in and out. She grabbed his hand, digging her fingernails into his flesh.

“Play with yourself,” he said right into her ear.

She reached down and groped awkwardly for her clit just as someone crashed into him, driving his cock deeper inside her.

Taking a deep breath and trying not to move too much she stared, glassy eyed, at the bartender. He was popping the top off of a Summit with one hand and grabbing a glass with the other. She reached under the bar again and then noticed from the corner of her eye that the tattooed man was watching her. He smiled as he brought his beer up to his mouth.