“It’s good. Indian sex Chick – flicky for my taste,” I continued, like an idiot. I didn’t see any tears. And she never cried. The sound of her voice perked me up (and made me drop my guard) so, I replied,
“I watched it once with my ex.”
She glanced at me, a small crease forming above her eyebrows, before she turned back to the screen. You? “Mm, looks good. My dick was in the crevice of her lower cheeks, the tip resting against her lower back. She was considered exceptional because of her lack of an emotional response to traumatic situations. I remember reading the CIA assassination reports, her formal training over the years. You’re too loveable to not be loved.”
“Bullshit.”
“Your parents love you.”
“My parents are dead.”
She said it so blandly, so emotionlessly, that I was shocked into silence. “You probably think I’m some attention seeking slut, grinding into your dick like that, then pulling this ‘Oh, look at miserable me’ horseshit.”
She was venting.
