Not The Girlfriend Kind.

"You see, you're just not the girlfriend kind." Not a criticism, but a statement of fact, and of course I wondered if he thought this because I had just enjoyed anal sex for the first time. Perhaps girlfriends didn't let their boyfriends slip it into their back passage. Perhaps girlfriends thought to appear violated at the very thought. Perhaps real girlfriends pretended to grimace in pain when their boyfriends dared to breach the sacred passage, despite the modest size of their boyfriends penis.
I was sweating from the effort of it all, an energetic oral titillation with barely a hint of reciprocation. Of course I had enjoyed it. There had been days of teasing. He was an architect, I can't remember his name now, but I'm sure it was something double barrelled. He was from good stock. Moneyed. His clothes were fine and he was fond of telling me the brand name of his shirts although the name meant nothing to me. He did look good. He was good in bed. I had been sleeping with him for over a week and of course, given the repetition of our meetings, I had thought we might have graduated from casual friends to something akin to dating.
"Don't take offence," he told me, struggling with the knot in the top of his condom, wiping himself clean with a tissue, delicate dabs, all care taken.
I think I hated him in that moment, but the sex had been good and I wanted to like him enough to repeat the performance the following night. "But there's this girl I met and she's more like a girlfriend type, I you know what I mean."
I didn't.
"You're sexy," kisses then and nuzzling and really, I didn't like him all that much but the thought that I was something less than the 'girlfriend type' seemed to itch at me. I wanted this boy, the architect, this spoiled little rich kid with his designer shirts, to like me more than he liked her.
"She's a nurse."
I could be a nurse.
"At the hospital."
I could dress in a little white dress with nice sensible white shoes. I could wear good underwear beneath it, or no underwear perhaps. I was sure he would like it if I came, knicker-less with a sponge bath.
"You met her...?"
"On Saturday. At a party."
Saturday was three days, half a relationship ago. The real girlfriend settling into place quietly in the background, and him, the architect, tickling my arse hole with his fingertip, counting the days, in subtle coercions, just a fingertip, the whole finger, then here, day three a full scale anal penetration before beating a hasty retreat.
"Come on. Don't be like that. Surely you know you're not the girlfriend type."
I knew it. Even then, when it was only him, the appalling architect, informing me of my shortcomings. I knew it. There was something unusual about my passion for sex. I consumed it as girlfriends might consume chocolates, licking their fingers afterwards, savouring the smell of it on their breath. Three other men told me I was not a 'girlfriend' kind of girl. A repetition of a theme. One of these men was kind enough to pick out friends of mine as examples - her, she's a girlfriend kind, and her. Considerate lovers.
I feel the rising bile just evoking their flaccid memories.