The One-Shot Fuse

 Single life in 1997 meant one thing: hanging out at Marco’s Bar.

Marco  was a playboy who had lived in London, and his stories were my bible. His bar was a magnet for interesting characters, and that spring, it pulled in a trio of university students from out of town.

I scanned the group like a predator checking the herd. One was a rich girl with a red sports car and a massive ego—pass. The second was too skinny for my taste. But the third one... Sofia.

She had a cute face, wild curly hair, and a body that looked like it was sculpted for sin.

The problem was the obstacles. First, she had baggage from an ex-boyfriend back home who was manipulating her. Second, and more immediately, there was Samu.

Samu was the guy Sofia had met initially. He had more style than me, more loud confidence, and he overshadowed me completely. Even if I suspected his persona was a façade, it was working. He was the main event; I was just part of the scenery.

So, I played the long game. I became the "friend."

I let Samu burn himself out with his ego while I took Sofia for rides on my motorbike. I listened to her problems. I offered a shoulder, not a dick. I waited for Samu to fade and for the ex-boyfriend to mess up.

Eventually, the strategy worked. One evening, the talk turned into a kiss. Her lips were thin, but sweet. She became my girlfriend.

The first time I got her naked in my bedroom, I thought I had won the lottery. Sofia had an incredible body—perfect, big firm tits that defied gravity. I was ready for the fuck of my life.

I was wrong.

Sofia was like a light switch with a fuse that blew too fast. She was horny, yes. But the moment I started touching her, she would get over-excited. Before I could even settle into a rhythm, she would cum.

And then? Ice.

Most women relax after an orgasm, or get ready for round two. Sofia shut down. She became cold, uninterested, almost annoyed by my touch. Shit. I tried to fix it. I thought maybe she was just mentally stressed. One night, she even suggested anal sex—maybe she was a closet masochist?

We tried. I entered her, but she flinched immediately. "It hurts." End of experiment. She wasn't a masochist; she just didn't know what she wanted.

Our best moments were the non-standard ones, probably because they were forced to be fast sprints rather than marathons. I still had the keys to the supermarket where I worked, so we improvised. Once, we fucked on the accountant’s desk surrounded by invoices. Another night, we did a quickie right on the checkout counter.

We had a rush in my bedroom when her favorite song came on the radio. But it was always a race against her fuse.

When summer came, Sofia went back to her hometown. The distance made the relationship impossible, so we broke up.

That summer, I fell into a chaotic rhythm. I missed the reliability of Clara, so I called her. We started a "Friends with Benefits" arrangement—movies, coffee, and excellent, familiar sex. But then Sofia came back, and surprisingly, she wanted the same deal.

Suddenly, I was juggling two friends with benefits. It sounds like a dream, but it was a logistical nightmare. Clara on the weekends, Sofia during the week. My brain was scrambling to keep the stories straight.

The cracking point came in a bubble bath with Sofia.

The water was warm, the foam was thick, and she was going down on me. It felt amazing. I closed my eyes, drifting into pleasure, and opened my mouth to moan.

"Oh, C..."

I froze. The "Clara" was halfway out of my throat.

Panic spiked through my chest. I twisted my tongue, turning the "C" into a generic swear word that started with the same hard sound. Ca...zzo!

Sofia didn't notice, but I did.

I realized then that a great body wasn't enough. Sofia’s "one-shot" sex life was frustrating me, and the emotional connection wasn't there. I cut ties with her. The benefits stopped.

I was back to just one woman: Clara. My safe harbor. But I knew myself well enough to know I wouldn't stay in the harbor for long.