The Joy Of Hatefucking
Personally, I don’t think love and hate are opposites at all. If anything, they might share an opposite: indifference. Even if someone fucking HATES you . . . at least they have some kind of strong, burning feeling about you that consumes them to the point of powerlessness and self-destruction, right?
Most people who have experienced the brutal cathartic high of hatefucking (also called “hate sex”) have done it with an ex-lover, myself included. Sure, I could’ve purged that bitter rage and long-festering resentment by burning all the things they left at your apartment in a giant effigy . . . but why settle for a solitary ritual that would’ve probably set my smoke alarm off when there was a MUCH better option?
I had imagined my most recent hatefuck with an ex to play out more like pity sex with a vengeance. Him being the object of pity, of course. But when he showed up at my door that night and I saw his face, smelled his cologne (a distinctive scent which is always mixed with his sweat and the faintest whiff of cigarette smoke) and we were just physically close again . . . well, something deep inside me erupted. It was like an “Intensity” switch inside and all over my whole body had been flipped.
I could already feel myself getting wet from just smelling him.
Which really pissed me the FUCK off. I knew he still wanted me, too. So I could see it in his eyes — and the increasingly visible bulge in his faded, paint-flecked work jeans, too. Stupid mother fucker. Maybe if he wasn’t such an IDIOT I wouldn’t have had to break up with his ungrateful ass.
Seeing that he was turned on too simultaneously pleased me and repulsed me. I was still absolutely fucking FURIOUS with him. But I also still wanted to him to fuck me immediately, to just throw me up against the door and slide me onto his cock . . .
I handed him the plastic bag — which I felt was appropriately unglamorous, a symbolic gesture connotating “worthless garbage” — of the last random things of his I’d found.
“Thanks.” He looked down at the bag, then back up at me. We stared at each other, neither of us even able to muster the “politeness” needed to fake a smile.
I said nothing. All I could hear was my thought track playing on loop, at full volume: God, I fucking hate you.
TO BE CONTINUED . . .
