The Aftercare Was a Pep Talk and a Poptart
It was honestly some of the best sex I’ve ever had. Easily one of the hottest men I’ll ever sleep with — the kind of beautiful that makes you feel a little bit ruined afterward. He used me exactly the way I wanted to be used: held me down, choked me out, spit on me, left me shaking. I gave him everything, and it felt incredible.
Afterward, he handed me a cherry Poptart and said, “You’re stronger than you think.” Then he built a pillow wall between us, put on his headphones, pulled down his sleep mask, and went to sleep.
That was the aftercare.
No touch. No real check-in. No “how do you feel now that I’ve pulled you apart and made you cry.” Just a motivational quote and a boxed pastry.
I wasn’t expecting poetry. I didn’t need to be coddled. But I think I expected something. A gesture. A glance. A little softness to remind me I was still a person, not just an incredible fuck.
Instead, I laid there in the dark trying to convince myself I wasn’t being dramatic. That I should be grateful. That not everyone gets to be split open by someone that gorgeous. That the sex was worth it.
And maybe it was. But I think that night taught me something I didn’t want to learn: even amazing sex doesn’t always leave you feeling good. Especially when you realize the person who just wrecked your body has zero interest in what happens to it after.
