I liked to think of myself as pretty open-minded, and though my friends had often lamented about finding their boyfriends’ porn stash, or discovering a few unsavory links in their browser history, I liked to think that I was above all of that. So when Jeff, my boyfriend, pulled his laptop into bed with us, and told me he had something he wanted me to see, I wasn’t exactly surprised when the movie—with all of its cheesy, porn-music soundtrack and breathy moans—started up.
To be honest, it turned me on a little at first. I had seen porn before but never in the context of with a man in bed. Just us girls laughing at it. The first time, when he put the laptop in front of me and took me, doggy-style, while we both watched, was a strange mix of excitement and pure disgustment. In porn talk, I watched as the woman flicked her dark brown hair to the side, red, red lips mouthing loud gasps of pleasure, riding on the man’s member as he slapped her ass although that part, ouch, how could that be comfortable?
But I still stayed open-minded because I loved Jeff and heard that it was not really uncommon, I said to myself. It was like the laptop became the third person or persons in our bed.
It was ok, and could be very sexy at times as long as the movie didn’t get to far out, and then, one night, it just wasn’t.
I’d had a bit too much to drink—we both had, but that’s not really an excuse is it? I should’ve been more firm about how uncomfortable it made me when he pulled out his phone and started taking photos. What’s one semi sexy photo, I thought to myself? He was going away on a business trip, he should have something to remember me by.
Afterward, when he left, I had four whole days alone to really think about it. Think about everything I had said, everything I’d left unsaid. How uncomfortable it made me, to think that he was walking around with that photo on his phone. What had seemed intimate in the moment now felt cheap, and I felt mortified at the realization that, Jeff being Jeff, there was a very high likelihood that he had shown it to some of ‘the guys.’ Like I was a trophy he won!
When he came home, I asked him to delete it.
He didn’t. Said I ‘should’ve known better,’ and that I ‘must’ve liked it.” Seeing the expression on his face was what sealed the deal for me. I was done with him.
But first—turnabout, after all, is fair play.
I had planned to stay in his place for two more days before driving back into the city. The night before I was supposed to leave, as had now become routine, he propped up the laptop and started watching it, touching me, touching himself. And I knew, even though his behavior revolted me, even though his touch was as repellant as his smug attitude, that I had to play along. Judging by the expression on his face, I’d say he was as turned on as ever.
Of course, as soon as he was done huffing and puffing, he rolled off to the side, and fell asleep. It would’ve been easy to doze off too, had I not been so keyed up. His breathing grew deep and even. I matched it with my own. He murmured and nuzzled into the pillow; I relaxed, and didn’t respond.
Finally, after about an hour. He stilled. And then, soundlessly, slowly, stealthily, he got up from the bed.
I wasn’t completely sure where he was going.
When I saw him take his laptop into the bathroom, my stomach felt sick. He didn’t even close the door all the way and I saw him prop it up on his knees, and whip himself out. I heard the soft sounds of the porn music start up, and he adjusted the volume down, glancing around not seeing that I could see him. How many times had we made love, watching those videos? Not an hour ago we had sex – a little rougher than ever before. I suppose making a big show of his prowess in bed, and I’d played along—but all the while I’d been secondary.
All he needed—all he wanted, apparently—was his hand.
Men look funny when they jack off, I thought to myself as he began to stroke himself. I could see him surfing thru threesomes, spankings, fistings, women tied up and pliant and anything but a real, live woman before him. He fisted himself faster now, hunching over himself, looking like an epileptic turtle. It was all I could do not be sick or laugh.
Instead, I slowly, carefully pulled out my own cell phone.
Snuck over closer to the bathroom, and hit the button to record.
He didn’t even notice. It was obvious, the way he ejaculated with the most ridiculous expression on his face, the way he wiped off the leavings on the towel he knew I used to dry my hair. I quickly went back to bed and he came to bed soon after, didn’t even wash his hands, just fell asleep for real this time.
Early in the morning, I left for work. Made sure to take everything I ever wanted to see again—the clothes I’d left over, my favorite pair of pajama pants. And when I asked him, nicely, if he’d delete the photos of me on his phone, he just laughed.
Then he admitted it: “The guys thought you were pretty enthusiastic, babe.” He said, smug, confident look on his face. I just smiled sweetly, until I was miles away.
Then I texted him a screenshot of the video from last night. “Go fuck yourself now, Jeff. We’re done.”
Revenge, they say, is a dish best served cold.
