The Torrent of Filth

By November, the novelty of the red Seat Ibiza had faded. My relationship with Clara was stable and comfortable. But at twenty years old, I was learning a hard truth: "stable" felt a lot like "boring."

Then, family duty called. My grandmother fell ill, and my father asked Teresa to come back and help.

She returned, but she wasn't alone. She had a new boyfriend—a twenty-three-year-old stoner who lived in a haze of smoke. He spoke in riddles and looked at me like he was on a different frequency. I wasn't jealous of him. I didn't even want what he had. But seeing her again triggered the old obsession.

One night, Teresa and I shared a joint. The weed hit me hard. I sat there, paralyzed in my chair, staring at her. I remembered the keyhole and the white towel. I wanted to make a move, but the drugs locked my body. I missed the window.

Two nights later, fate gave me a second chance.

It was Teresa’s turn to sleep at my grandmother’s house to keep watch. She hated the silence of the empty house and asked me to join her. I accepted immediately.

The house smelled of old wood and medicine. It was freezing. There was a logistical problem: an uncomfortable couch at one end, and a small single bed near my grandmother’s room. I used the excuse that we needed to be close in case she woke up. Teresa hesitated, but eventually, she agreed.

We lay in the dark. The mattress was so small that gravity forced our bodies together. I lay on my side, facing her, and draped an arm over her waist. She didn't flinch. Emboldened, I slid my hand under her pajama top, touching her flat belly. Still no complaint. I moved higher, finally cupping the small breasts I had only ever seen through a keyhole.

She finally spoke, whispering in the cold air. "Well, it would be more romantic if you started by inviting me for dinner."

I didn't have time for romance. I had a girlfriend for that. "I want to have sex with you," I said. Blunt. Honest.

Silence hung in the room. Then she dropped the bomb. "We can't. I'm on the last day of my period." "I don't care," I replied. And I didn't. The hunger was stronger than the hygiene.

She paused, realizing I wasn't going to stop. "Give me five minutes."

She went to the bathroom. I lay there, heart pounding against the mattress springs. I realized I was about to cross the line. I was about to cheat on Clara. I was about to sleep with the second woman of my life.

When she came back, we started kissing. It wasn't smooth like it was with Clara. Teresa had a strange theory about kissing. She believed that people with thin lips, like her, had to put in extra effort, while people with full lips, like me, were natural kissers. She tried to compensate for her thin lips with pure force. It was horrible. She used too much tongue, scrubbing against my mouth like a toothbrush.

But I was too turned on to care about technique. The guilt vanished the moment skin touched skin. I climbed on top, missionary style, and slid into her.

The sex started normally, but as she got close to the edge, Teresa transformed.

The quiet, polite family friend disappeared. She grabbed me, nails digging into my back, and unleashed a torrent of filth. "Fuck my cunt, you son of a bitch! Stick your hard dick deep! Bastard! Fuck me!"

I froze. She noticed my hesitation. "I... I say a lot of bad words when I cum," she gasped, her eyes wild in the dark. "No problem," I grinned, recovering my rhythm. "I like it."

I finished inside her and collapsed. She confessed later that her boyfriend had some anatomical issue that made sex impossible. She had been starving for a good fuck. And I had delivered.

The next evening, she invited me back. There was no need for persuasion this time. Round two was more relaxed. I couldn't help but compare—Clara was technically better, especially with her mouth. But Teresa had an enthusiasm that was intoxicating.

She climbed on top, riding me, screaming obscenities into the dark room before I finally let go. As we lay in the afterglow, she smiled—a serious look right into my eyes—and stroked my chest. "You are a great fucker," she said. "You have a great tool there. Take good care of it."

I walked out of that house feeling ten feet tall. I was no longer just a boy with a girlfriend. I was a man who could satisfy an experienced, older woman. I had cheated, and the world hadn't ended. In fact, it had just gotten a lot more interesting.