Addicted Ch. 18

Relationship Status: "complicated."

And that was only because they didn't offer "insane" as an option.

Sunday afternoon, I left my girlfriend's apartment. Carrying four of her paintings, I limped two blocks to my beat-up ride. My dick was chafed, my balls depleted and over-sensitive. Just sitting into the sorry excuse of an M998 driver's seat was a delicate operation.

"Fucking insane."

That was the mantra through Sunday-driver traffic.

So, if you're just joining us, last night (Saturday) was a stay-home night (her place) after two cheat-nights in a row. Yeah, THAT kind of cheating. Last night wasn't a "reclaim" night, more of a "reset" night: just the two of us. Just hanging out. I loved being around her, even when we weren't getting it on, so it was nice. Really nice.

Us being us, though, one thing led to another. The cheats sparked an idea and she searched up "girlfriend porn" and we stumbled over a Tumblr site called "I Want My Girlfriend Like This." It was all slut-themed and that was foreplay and background for long, slow sex.

Being into communication and healthy relationships, we browsed as we fucked. Like you do. Naturally, we used those scenarios to feel out each other's kink. Since this relationship started on a cheat (with me), she'd now cheated twice more (on me). I'm pretty sure last night was us actually feeling out real-world relationship boundaries.

...On a porn site.

"Fucking insane."

I mean: what the actual fuck was I thinking? I was thinking with my dick. But there it was.

Pulled into my apartment building's garage, backed into my spot, and gingerly climbed out of the Hummer. Pulled out Lizzy's four watercolor canvases, and limped toward the stairs.

The last second, I veered off toward the elevator. Set down the paintings, pushed the button... and shook my head. "Has it come to this?"

That's was how I knew I was fucked up. I was a physical therapist and trainer. I led by example, and I always, ALWAYS took the stairs. Except right now. I hadn't had so much goddamned sex in a 72-hour period ever. Swear to God I was going to dip my whole package in Neosporin and wrap it in gauze.

And Lizzy? She'd want a picture of that.

#

In my apartment, everywhere I looked, there was a vivid memory of my girlfriend. A bit over two months ago: our first night. She'd cheated on her boyfriend, with me. Guilt got her; a phone call later, he broke up with her. She stood and cried in my living room.

Then she went down on me. Again.

Some time later, when we were a couple: sex on the table, then sex on the kitchen counter, and over in the bedroom, and in the shower, and on the couch. Fuck, especially the couch.

Did I mention she's a "slut"?

No, not because she likes sex. That's awesome. We love that. No, "slut" because she blows her boss quarterly as part of her performance review. That's what she admit to me, in the middle of pillow-talk one night. Nah, can't really be true, can it?

It was true.

Guilty, she told me all about her session this last Thursday night. Yeah, right after it happened. I'm not sure what I expected: we'd talked about that bad habit, but it still hit me hard. Did I expect my magic abs would change her habits? Yes, maybe? To be honest, I didn't think about it much. I lost track of it, it faded away...

Boom: three nights ago, it actually happened.

She confessed, and right after, we boned on the couch. What kind of sex was it? Reclaim sex? Sorta? Except she didn't have sex with her boss. She went down on him. So what did fucking her really say? Pretty sure it validated bad habits.

Then Friday, still kinda buzzing over a slutty girlfriend, I wanted to replay the night we met, but from the other side. I wanted to watch her get picked up in a bar. "Our" bar. She did: I saw the spark between her and some guy. I watched it grow. I watched them leave. I finally followed and watched her give that guy head in his car. Afterward...?

Afterward, it was head, outside, in the shadows -- then sex on my couch. Dunno: does that count as "theme" or a "motif"?

Plowed her so hard, I think I cracked the frame. Shit. Forgot about that. I was gonna have to look at that this week.

Then last night and half of today, over at her place, we watched porn together. We shared what turned us on. We took notes on what turned us off. And we did it all while fucking.

I looked down at my dick. My dick looked up at me.

"For fucks' sake, Jimmy, how can you even be awake right now?!"

"You should hang Lizzy's paintings, James," my dick replied.

"Fuck. Fine."

The two of us took about fifteen minutes to see where the paintings should go. It's not like I had anything else on the walls, but I didn't know a thing about art. I went to school, I could figure this shit out. A few minutes looking at the "Architectural Digest" website and I think I faked it pretty well.

The second all four of them were on the wall, I suddenly felt like an adult.

I've jumped off fucking helicopters. I've been shot at. I graduated with a 3.85, got my California EMT license, was recruited for a Physical Therapist job... and it took hanging fucking art on my walls to actually feel like an adult? What the fuck?

These were originals, though, not prints.

Shit. Should I have them framed?

Goddammit.

Next best thing: I took pictures of the paintings and posted them online. Caption: "They add something, don't they? Enjoy the pictures, everybody... I love showing off this artist."

#

Monday morning, with a hint of dawn brewing behind the Verdugo Mountains, I was right behind the manager as she opened the gym. The second the door was unlocked, I brushed past her.

"Aren't you in a little early?" Carly called out.

I nodded, and realized a moment later that she couldn't see that in the dark. "Barely slept. A lot on my mind."

"Did you work out this weekend?" She grimaced a moment later, realizing how ridiculous that question was.

But me? I already had an answer percolating. "Why, yes, I did. Thanks! I'll bet my cardio was better than yours. Also a good bit of plyometrics and just a bit of light powerlifting."

"Uh, 'light' powerlifting?" She blinked.

"About 125 pounds, but I was going for the reps, not the weight."

Carly rolled her eyes. "What's her name?"

"Elizabeth."

"OH!" Carly pointed. "Is this 'Lizzy'?!"

"Yep. Have I mentioned her?"

"Once or twice," Carly grinned. "The cute-monster, right?"

"That's the one."

Carly tapped her cheek, thinking. "It's been a couple months now, hasn't it? You started seeing her just after you started working here."

"I'm boggled you remember that."

"Me, too. I guess I pictured you as more of a Casanova."

It was way, way, waaaay too early to have this conversation. "I'd like to say I've never been a 'love 'em and leave 'em' kinda guy."

"You'd like to say that," Carly pouted. "But we'd both know that's bullshit."

"Oh, my God. You."

"Whaaat?"

"Whaaat?" I echoed back at her, threading the chain through a weight plate. I clipped the carabiner on the weight belt and grabbed the pull-up bar. I was using gym vocabulary to end this conversation as politely as I could.

A second later, I was doing wide-grip chin-ups.

Lizzy. Fucking Lizzy.

Her quarterly performance review was behind us, but I couldn't get the image out of my head. What if something changed now that she felt accepted doing it? What about all her office ex-boyfriends? And that's to say nothing of her next quarterly performance review.

Fuck.

I dropped off the bar and unclipped the weight.

The chain in my hand, I had a flashing vision of wrapping it around her manager's neck. Or any one of her ex-boyfriends. Or all of her ex-boyfriends. At the same time.

But no.

That would deprive me of watching her. My cute-monster.

Goddammit. The gym was no place for a hard-on.

#

I slung my bag over my shoulder and headed out.

The sun was deep in the western sky as I fired up the Peace-Mobile. I was still angry. Not at Lizzy, but at myself. I couldn't stop obsessing. It wasn't even a "getting over it" obsession. It was an addiction to her.

That cutesy goddamned smile. Those big, brown eyes. Those little chipmunk cheeks. Those legs, leading right up to that ass--and my phone buzzed.

It was Lizzy's ringtone.

I took a deep breath and tried to act nonchalant. "Hey."

"HI!" she bubbled. "How are you?"

"Exhausted. Just leaving work now."

"Oof. I'm leaving the gym, too."

"Any workouts at work?"

"Work...? No!" she giggled. "No performance reviews, no ex-boyfriends..."

I laughed, shaking my head. That stupid Tumblr site was oozing through my head.

Her voice was like pink cotton candy. "You were thinking about it, weren't you?"

Fuck. "I'd be lying if I said 'no'."

"Well, as I go running through your mind, picture me without clothes on."

"There's a word for that."

"Streaking?"

"Hot. I was thinking 'hot,' but streaking works even better. You ever gone streaking?"

"I've fantasized about it."

Why does that not surprise me? "I think you should."

"I will if you watch."

"Where should I meet you?"

"Nuh-uh!" She laughed. "Not tonight! My legs are too sore from this weekend. Mall cops would catch me!"

"The mall cops would catch you? Okay, you're more sore than I thought."

"I mean, getting caught naked wouldn't be THAT bad," she giggled. "Can you come over?"

And there it was: the jolt through my still-sore dick. For an erection that lasts more than four hours, contact your friends to fuck the shit out of your girl until she puts her goddamned clothes back on.

Too bad none of my friends lived in the neighborhood.

I shook my head, pushing it all out. "I'd love to come over, but I've got an early client tomorrow."

A beat on the other end, then a sad "'Kay."

#

Tuesday morning started with a house call. The client was an actor, and I guarantee you've seen him -- and probably recently, too. He had an ankle injury sustained on-set, action sequence no less, and I was rehabbing him.

The rest of the team included a massage therapist, an osteopath, the guy's usual trainer, his dietician, an agent, a manager, a personal assistant, a dialect coach, and a producer waving non-disclosure agreements around after they worked on the script between sets.

Fucking pit crew.

I had to focus for both of us, and focus was not my thing -- at least not right now. Not when I was thinking about Lizzy's boss, four workplace ex-boyfriends and four cheat-flings that broke them up. All. At. Fucking. Work.

Fuck. At least she was consistent.

Oh, fukkity-fuck: I forget about Green-Shirt Guy. The one I watched her go down on in a car on Friday night as we reenacted OUR first night together. The one who asked for her number and she told him to text her only during working hours so she "didn't get caught."

Work hours. Did I mention "fuck"?

Probably better that I don't know Green-Shirt's name.

I faked the focus. That was my tribute to the actor: I was acting as if I was all there.

#

I was asleep when I heard her ringtone.

Part of me was already sinking back into unconsciousness, ready to let it go to voicemail, when my dick answered the phone. Not sure how it did that, or how my wang held the phone up to my ear, but they say the human body can do amazing things under the right conditions.

"Hey, babe."

Somehow, she heard it in my voice. "Oh, shit! I'm sorry! Did I wake you?"

"Sorta?" I propped myself up on my elbows. "It's nice to hear you, though."

"Funny! I called 'cuz... I just had... to hear you!"

"Uhh..." And suddenly, I was at a loss for words. "How much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?"

She giggled, then launched into her day. I'm not really sure why I cared, but I was actually paying attention. My dick had zero interest. I think it was waiting for some mention of Green-Shirt Guy, or her boss, or one of the other eight fucking guys at her office that she's had some sort of physical interaction with...

But no. None of that. That didn't necessarily mean nothing happened, but I know she would've gotten off telling me about it. Not a hint.

And strangely, I was okay with no sex right now.

I listened as much to the melody of her voice as I did the meaning of her lyrics. There was a certain breathy rhythm to her voice, a certain sexy tempo, and even half asleep, I liked listening to her.

She met her girlfriends for a coffee lunch, went to the gym with them after work, and went food shopping on the way home. She had ideas for another painting but she was still exhausted from the weekend, much less the day's workout.

Most of all, she was missing me.

For a moment, it felt like we were a normal couple. I missed her. I really fucking missed her and even if we were both asleep, I wished she was sleeping next to me.

"Okay, I'll... let you... go back... to sleep," she sighed. "I... love... you."

"Love you, too, babe."

#

Wednesday had been all in-gym clients, and it was a steady stream.

My workout lasted all day, sneaking in a few sets here and there between sessions. By the time my last client left, I'd burned away every gram of my blood sugar and I was freaking starving.

I stepped out of the gym... and almost went to her place. Maybe she was home, maybe she wasn't, but I hadn't talked to her all day. I almost called her, but something held me back. You know what? Not knowing was oddly exciting.

That was the weird part about going out with her: you never know what's happening when you're not there. Okay, obviously, duh. I was projecting her best bad habits. There was probably nothing: she was a grown-ass woman and she had shit to do... but yeah, she was also an obsessive-compulsive slut, so the naughty possibilities were exciting.

So, what do you do when NOT talking to somebody amounted to low-grade edging? Exactly: I gave her room to do her thing, whatever that was. Instead of going to her place, I put on some trance and cruised home, trying to keep my Zen.

It almost worked.

#

Her ringtone. I barely heard it over the stereo.

"Yo!"

"James... are you... home?"

"Yup. Miss me?"

"Yes! Can I... come... over?"

"Please, do!"

"Okay! I'll be over..." There was a shuffle on the other side, like she dropped her phone or something. Took a moment before she was back. "...In just... a bit! I love... you!"

#

She leaned in, and as she did, I sniffed for dick on her breath. I don't think I was obvious about it, but I didn't hide it. I had this gut feeling after last Saturday, yet there was nothing but Listerine.

Since it was safe, that "hello" kiss was deep.

Three days deep.

We had some time to make up for.

When we finally came up for air, pulling back, I ran my fingers through her hair. She squeezed her eyes shut like I cat as I did, and that gave me an extra heartbeat to look for dried cum.

She gave me a little side-eye. "Did you just...?"

"Hm? What?"

She blinked a moment, then shook her head. "Anyway, tits."

"You know, I love the conversations we have..." I dropped my gaze to her chest. No evidence of hanky-panky there, either. "Love 'em."

"They're too small."

"They're perfectly shaped."

She pulled my head right down to her slender A-cup cleavage. "God, I love you."

"I love you, too. And your tits."

"Will you love my tits if they're bigger?"

"Is this a trick question?"

"No," she giggled. "I've made an appointment. I'm hoping you can be there for the consultation."

"The what?"

"Consultation. Us. Together."

"Are we getting a timeshare or something?"

She grabbed my shirt and kissed me. "James, do NOT tease me like that."

"Ha! Do you really think you could handle living with me?" I pointed at her four paintings. "Gotta admit, though: I really love your artwork on my walls."

She melted as she noticed them. "Awwww!"

"So, you were saying: boobs?"

Not even sure she'd heard me. Instead, she walked around the apartment, appraising where I'd hung her watercolors.

There were tears in her eyes as she walked over to the breakfast nook. She looked happy, then sad, overjoyed, then morose. It was a little weird, actually.

"You okay?"

"I'm not quite sure how to handle this."

I pointed at the pictures. "I don't want to give them back, if that's what you're asking. They're fucking beautiful. I'll give you visiting rights, though, every time you come over."

She smiled and wiped her cheek dry. "I'm, just... I'm an idiot."

"Oh-oh." I pulled up a stool next to her. "What did you do?"

"Travis."

"Huh? Who?"

"Green-shirt guy."

"He has a name?"

She smile-laughed-coughed all at the same time and wiped another tear from her cheek. "You actually hung my paintings on the wall... that's amazing!"

"Well, yeah. They're amazing."

"And I'm an idiot," she sniveled. "You remember what I told him?"

Took a moment to call up that moment of the Friday night aftermath. "Only text you during working hours?"

She nodded. "He texted me on Monday morning."

"Of course he did!" That was three days ago. "Wait..."

She held up a hand, nodding.

Not gonna lie: it sent a jolt through my dick.

As she held up her hand, she curled her thumb in, then her pinky, leaving three fingers up. My brain immediately went to our Saturday night. "Holy shit. He gave you three orgasms?"

She face-palmed with the three-finger hand. "No! We've seen each other three times since Monday."

"THREE TIMES?!" I leaned back, taking her in, head to toe. "Did you, uh..."

"That is literally the only reason I would see him," she nodded. "We've hooked up three times: Monday, yesterday, and today..."

"Every day?! Holy shit! I'm..." My brain spun like a rotor, different angles on Pillow Talk versus Healthy Communication as the blades. "I'm shocked."

"Shocked?" Tears were running down her cheeks. "But, the..."

I held up a hand, still thinking. I had to land this bird.

She gave me a moment.

There were too many factors, too many emotions packed in a 15-second space to even try to articulate. On the balance, though, my dick suddenly felt confined in my shorts. My couch was in mortal danger. For a moment, I didn't even realize I was chuckling.

She squinted at me, one eyebrow up.

I looked back at her: "I confess: I am in awe of your time management skills."

She coughed and giggled. "THAT?! Well... I was very motivated!"

"Hey, Tumblr..." I cupped her chin and pulled her in for a kiss. "My girlfriend really is 'like that'... and I fucking love it."

She leaned in for another kiss and this one went deep. The Listerine was STILL strong, and damn she took my breath away.

When we finally came up for air, I ran a thumb over her cute chipmunk cheek. "Are WE okay?"

She was a little unsteady as she slid off her stool to stumble over to me. She kissed me, then kissed me again, and kissed me deep. "I hope so... but I had to tell you."

"So, tell me. Tell me everything. I want to hear every dirty detail."

"You know what?" She nodded and wiped her eyes. "I have to go back to Friday night. I have to tell you how much your voice was in my head."

"What did I say?"

"When we were in the bar, just before I went back to him. You said 'Know how much I love you while you're giving him your number'. You remember that?"

"Sure." Looking back on it now, I'd been... yeah, I was feeding her addiction. "Hard to forget."

"So, he texted Monday morning," she explained. "A little while later, we met on our lunch break. I gave him head in his car. Again."

"At noon? Noon! It's light out!"

"Uh, doi."

"Where?"

"In his car" --she saw my look-- "Hahaha! Oh, like, where... I get it. Kind of a back corner of the parking lot of the Chinese place where we ate."

"That's..." I adjusted my dick in my shorts again. "Shockingly hot! How was it?"