I felt guilty when I paid for my train ticket to London with the exact same twenty-pound note my parents had given me for food. They were aware that I had been having problems with my first boyfriend and my first lover. Everyone was aware of it. My Uni flatmates were sick of the sleepless nights provoked by our passion-fuelled arguments and then the scandalously loud make-up sex that followed whenever he came to visit me.
I was addicted to this passionate rollercoaster of emotions. Up and down, up and down all the time. The highs were exhilarating but the lows were terribly low. It was exhausting. I learned that no orgasm was good enough to put up with this constant drama.
I felt as though I had no choice but to break up with him. I did it during a serious telephone conversation. Given the fact that we lived in different cities and that we were both students with little to no money, it made sense to do it this way. He was silent when I told him that I couldn’t take it anymore. He just acknowledged that our relationship was not sustainable or healthy and he agreed that it had to end.
Over the next few days, I did my best to erase him from my life. I got rid of all the things that reminded me of him in my tiny student bedroom. I even got rid of our BDSM stash of whips, blindfolds and PVC outfits. I felt lighter although I was a little lost and I wondered how I would take care of my seriously high libido. Or rather who would attend to my needs as I still hadn’t discovered sex toys at that stage of my life.
I thought I was making progress as a newly single person when he phoned me a week after our official breakup. He was apologetic and nostalgic, crying even. I had never heard or seen him cry before. I was flabbergasted.
‘Come to London, I need to see you,’ he begged me.
‘You know it’s over. We can’t get back together.’
‘I know. Please. Just one last time.’
I knew I had to go and see him one last time. I wasn’t going to be tempted to get back together, no matter how many mind-blowing orgasms he gave me – or how much he begged. Despite this, it seemed as though we needed to see each other for the face-to-face closure of our three-year relationship. Well, that was how I justified it to myself.
He greeted me at the train station in London with a silent but deep meaningful hug full of emotion and desire. I inhaled his pheromones and he held me in his arms. Although his familiar scent was hypnotic, something inside me had shifted, I realised that I didn’t need him or the relationship any longer. I was no longer the subservient girlfriend he had known. I felt womanly and quite detached from the situation even though I was in it.
It was a beautiful day in London. People were soaking up the spring sun in parks and bustling beer gardens. The magic in the air was contagious after months of winter darkness. Everyone seemed happy. We walked through the streets with our arms around each other, stealing kisses wherever and whenever we could. It felt like it was the honeymoon period, even though it was the end.
We spent the next two days making love non-stop in his tiny student bedroom. The sex was intense and passionate but also sentimental and tender. We were having sex at every opportunity until our bodies couldn’t take it anymore. As I caressed his naked body, I was reflecting on how perfect he seemed to me. He was the first man I had touched and seen naked. I adored his body. I especially loved his cock; I loved how it felt in my hand, mouth and vagina. I simply couldn’t get enough of it. No wonder I had fallen for him so badly. When it was good, it was exquisite. He gave me the greatest joy I had ever experienced in my life up until that point.
I was grateful that he taught me to be a good lover. He even complimented me on my lovemaking skills which was a huge deal seeing as I had started our relationship as an awkward virgin. Now someone else will benefit from my learnings, I thought to myself.
He invited me to sit naked in front of the full-length mirror on his wardrobe door and told me to open my legs as wide as I could. I don’t think I had ever seen myself in such detail before. It felt perverse and empowering doing this in front of his staring eyes.
‘You have a beautiful vulva,’ he told me before kneeling in front of me and going down on me for a very long time.
I wasn’t going to let myself be influenced by the compliments or his expert tongue. But I did wonder why he didn’t make me feel this way and appreciate me more during our relationship.
There was no time to ponder on the past. The clock was ticking and the weekend of breakup sex was coming to an end as I had a train to catch.
When we got to the station, I felt strange that I didn’t feel strange if that makes any sense. I had previously been so scared of losing him and now I felt powerful. The only man I had ever been intimate with was about to become a stranger. A distant memory. I felt empowered knowing that I didn’t need him anymore. I had done what I needed to do and now I was ready for the next stage of my life. I wasn’t just going home; I was embarking on a new journey of singledom. Alone.
He walked with me on the platform and we said goodbye at the train door. It was surreal. I couldn’t believe it was over. When I sat on the train, in my window seat, he was still on the platform, smiling at me through the window. I smiled back and then got a magazine out of my bag and started reading. Something inside me told me not to look up again and when the train started pulling away, I looked out the window and saw that he was already gone.
I never heard from him or saw him ever again.
