Follow the River

But I’d be lying if I said it was always my hand I envisioned around my cock while I was being jacked.

No, I shamefully must admit, it belongs to another man.

Like right now, as this blonde chick strokes my cock in her hand, I’m not thinking about her. Or my own hand.

No, it belongs to him. The one I just saw—or think I saw—at the bar. His brown hair, now a disheveled mess from me ru

And like every fucking time I think of him, I’m hard as a rock.

But only this time, those eyes I’m staring into inside my head shift and turn the color of aquamarine. A deep teal, rather than a green brown.

Only, I’m too fucked up to care those eyes are all wrong, that they belong to my fucking nemesis, because I’m turned on and ready to get this show on the road.

Honestly, getting this high always seems to help when I need to fuck. It’s like my brain needs the extra stimulants to get my body on the same page of what exactly it is I want when it comes to getting laid.

I don’t know. Whatever it is, it works like a charm. Like it always did.

I slap the girl’s hand away from my cock before I lift her in my arms. My hands palm each of her ass cheeks as she wraps her legs around my waist to open herself for me. Pressing her back against the wall, I thank Jesus himself for the creation of skirts as I move her underwear to the side and guide myself to her entrance, bottoming out in her after one deep thrust. Her eyes roll back as her head hits the wall behind her, letting out a breathy moan.

A moan too light and airy for my liking.

Shifting my hips, I begin moving inside her, grinding against her pelvis with each thrust.

And it feels…good.

I mean sure, it almost always feels good. It’s sex for fuck’s sake.

But every goddamn time, it’s like there’s something missing. And no matter how hard I try, I can never put my finger on it.

My mouth latches onto her neck, sucking the supple skin between my lips. I’m harsh enough to leave a serious hickey for her to remember me by in the morning and from the state of her incoherent mumblings and glassy eyes, she sure as fuck isn’t going to remember anything else.

Plus it seems fitting, knowing I’ll be sporting one to match.

I start pounding into her, not giving a shit about finesse or my stamina. This isn’t about impressing some chick with my skills in the sack. I frankly couldn’t give two shits what she thinks, seeing as I’ll never see her again after tonight.

It doesn’t take long before she's writhing in my arms as I drive into her with reckless abandon, moans of ecstasy coming from her mouth.

But fuck, those moans are too fucking loud, too high pitched, and they hurt my fucking head.

So I cover her mouth with the palm of my hand and fuck her harder, giving her the clue to shut the fuck up.

Spoiler alert, it doesn’t work.

It doesn’t matter though, because before I know it, my balls draw up and cum bursts from the head of my cock into the condom I don’t remember managing to slip on before I put my dick inside her.

Did she give it to me, or did I have one?

Whatever, it doesn’t matter.

I just thank God for small miracles. I don’t need some cleat chaser trying to tie my ass down with a fucking pregnancy.

I sway on my feet as I pull out of her, setting her back on the ground.

Her drunken smile tells me in no way, shape, or form if she got off, but at this point I don’t fucking care. A fuck in the club bathroom is just that; a fuck. And from the looks of it, she’s too far gone to give a shit either way, because she sashays out the door without bothering to right her skirt or fix her mess of hair.

Shaking my head, my hand works on peeling the condom from my softening cock before discarding it in the trash receptacle to the side of me. Tucking myself back in my jeans, my hands slightly blurred as I do, I sigh.

What the fuck am I doing? What the fuck did I just do?

Or more like who? Because I still don’t fucking remember what her name is, only I think it starts with a K.

Karlee?

Fuck me.

This was a relapse of the worst kind, I know it. All my vices rolled into one messy, fucked up package. And while part of me should give a crap about the possibility of drug testing, getting kicked off the team, the cleat chaser poking holes in the condom…I don’t fucking care.

Not one goddamn bit.

Shit, I’m still really fucked up.

Wiping the sweat from my brow with my wrist, I turn on the faucet and quickly wash my hands and face. I press my hands into the cool counter, holding my weight up with them as water drips from over my nose and lips and close my eyes. Inhaling deeply through my nose before releasing the breath from my mouth, I war with my emotions, heightened to hell from the booze and blow.

It’s all I can do not to fucking vomit right now.

When the room stops spi

And I proceed to lose the contents of my stomach. Right there in the sink.

I’m fucking hallucinating.

He wasn’t here before, and he’s not here now.

He didn’t watch me fuck a random girl in the bathroom of a club.

I look up again, certain this is part of a bad trip. I know the coke was laced with something. E, right? Or it was the combination of the alcohol and drugs. Fuck, maybe the fact that I’ve been clean for a few years now, save for one night, and this shit is just hitting me differently than it used to.

I don’t know.

Whatever the case, it has to be the reason I’m met once more with the dark hazel eyes belonging to one of the many ghosts from my past.