Humor · SexualConsent · Sexuality

Angry Sex


During the free for all days, post widowhood and pre sex worker, I fucked a different guy every night. Not bragging, I’m just being honest. There was one guy who stands out, I’ll call him Mark. His approach to sex was conquer and bail, rough and brutal and pissed off. I never figured out what his damage was, just that he fucked with a furious agenda. He had a reputation of never coming back for seconds either, which makes it all too weird why we hooked up for a solid, freakishly nightmarish month.

I suppose I was a challenge. He messaged me on Yahoo chat, asking why I was fucking all his friends. His user name was unknown, so I told him to go to Hell. The very next day, he messaged me again, to ask what made me such a slut. Once again, I told him to fuck himself. The third day he’s asking me out, and I said yes, just out of sheer curiosity as to what his problem was exactly. We met up at a local bar, and he launched into a soliloquy about how he hated bitches like me, but I was still sexy. Told him where to put the drink he bought me, and walked home.

Not an hour after I get home, Mark calls. Apologising for being an asshat, he told me sexually confident women bothered and aroused him equally. He had a no strings hookup in mind, and just wanted to fuck me once. I had nothing better planned, so I gave him directions to the apartment.

The sex was nothing if not aggressive. He screwed like had a score to settle. It was a steady act of brutal thrusts and bangs, no subtlety to speak of. If he was expecting me to whine and cry, he was sorely disappointed. I gave as good as I got, matching his aggression. It ended up more like a good bar fight. We finished, and I told him to lock the door behind him as he left, immediately. He looked stunned. He wanted to play the tough guy, then was shocked to taste his own medicine. I felt no guilt turning over and going to sleep as he got dressed.

We continued this little charade for a month. He’d call, come over, try to use me to break the furniture, then get pissed when I barely gave him time to take off the condom before I booted him out the door. At the end, he called me, saying he was hurt by my coldness. That was the break of my last nerve. As calmly as I could shout at the phone, I laid it out for him: I didn’t want to know why he had emotional issues, I just wasn’t going to let him make me feel guilty for being brashly sexual. Furthermore, the sex wasn’t good enough to deal with bruises, physical or psychological. He snapped, and as he began to scream obscenities, I hung up and blocked his number.
I had a date to get ready for.


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