He talked numbers like it was sport
I wanted tea and a hand on my back. That is the whole article, if I am honest. Everything else is me trying to explain why a man can be inside you ten minutes earlier and still treat the aftermath like a quarterly review.
I am good at sex. I say that without the little cough people put in front of a sentence they are ashamed of. I like it. I ask for it. I do not need it dressed up as something holy before I will admit I enjoyed myself. What I cannot do, and I am done pretending I can, is lie there while someone marks the night out of ten.
It started fine. It always does.
We had been circling each other for a bit. Voice notes. Filthy texts that ruined my shift in the best way. The sort of build up that makes you feel chosen before anyone has even taken their coat off. I went back to his. I wanted to. Nobody dragged me.
The sex itself was not the problem. He paid attention. He asked once, properly, and then he actually watched my face instead of performing for a camera that was not there. I came. He came. For a minute the room was just breathing and the central heating making that cheap little click it does in flats that are never quite warm.
Then he propped himself on one elbow like he was about to present findings.
How many times.
Was that better than last week.
Did I usually take that long.
I laughed because that is what I do when something lands wrong. I have a whole face for it. Smug. Fine. Unbothered. Inside I was already putting my bra on in my head.
Nobody wants a performance review in their sheets
There is a version of this that sounds generous if you squint. He wants to know if I had a good time. He wants to improve. Very modern. Very well read. Very “I watch the right videos.”
It does not feel generous when you are still wet and someone is taking inventory.
It feels like I have been turned into data.
I work in a warehouse. I spend my day around numbers that have to be right. Pallets. Rotas. Who is covering what. My brain already does scorecards from seven in the morning. I do not come home, or to someone else’s home, so I can be assessed with my makeup half down the pillow.
Ask if I am alright. Ask if I want water. Ask if I want you to stop talking. Do not ask me to rank the evening while my pulse is still in my throat.
People online love a clean phrase for this. Aftercare. Check in. Hold her. Fine. Use those words if they help you remember. What I mean is simpler. Stay a person. Do not become a manager the second you pull out.
What I actually wanted
Tea.
Not in a cute brunch way. In a kettle way. Something hot in a mug that does not match. Silence that is not awkward. A hand on my back that is not leading anywhere yet. The daft bit where you laugh because your hair is a state and nobody is trying to win.
I wanted the slow morning. Even if the morning was only twenty minutes because I had an early shift and my trainers were by the door. Slow does not mean hours. It means nobody is in a rush to turn what just happened into a story about how good they are.
He kept talking. How I compared. How loud I was. How he could tell I “really went.” I have heard versions of this before. It is always dressed as a compliment. It is always about him.
I said it was good. That was true. I also wanted him to shut up. That was truer.
Scorekeeping is just ego in a nicer shirt
Look. I am not precious about sex. I have had plenty. I have left before sunrise and been fine about it. I have stayed and wanted breakfast and not asked. I know the difference between casual and cold, even if I am messy about which one I pick on a given night.
Casual can still be kind.
Casual can still make you a cup of something.
Casual can still look at you like you are in the room and not like a result.
Scorekeeping is different. Scorekeeping is a man trying to pin the night to his chest so he can carry it into the next conversation, the next girl, the next group chat. I have been that recap. I have also been the one sending the recap. I know how quickly a body becomes a story you tell to feel big.
When he started on numbers I felt myself leave. Not dramatically. Just that little slide where you are still answering and your head is already on the night bus. I clocked the time. I thought about the rota. I thought about whether my mascara had transferred onto his pillowcase and if he would notice after I had gone.
That is not mystery. That is me protecting the bit of myself that still wants to be held and hates saying it.
The morning is the tell
Night is easy. Night has lighting and a bit of drink and the version of me that leaves the flat already performing. Morning is where you find out if anyone is still interested when the face is not done and the jokes are slower.
I wanted him to pass that test without knowing it was a test. A hand. A glass of water. No sudden need to discuss technique. No “so how was that for you” like I was leaving a Google review.
He failed it while still looking pleased with himself.
I got dressed in the bathroom. I did my mouth in the mirror and felt that familiar click. If I look finished, I can leave. If I look finished, I do not have to ask for the thing that would have taken thirty seconds.
He texted later. Fire emoji. You up. A recap of his own performance with a question mark on the end so it counted as interest.
I left it.
Not because I am above him. Because I could still feel the scorecard on my skin and I did not want to give it another column.
I know what I sound like
Soft. Needy. A bit much for someone who will tell you she does not do boyfriends and then sulk when nobody makes the tea. I can hear it. The group chat would have opinions. Half of them would say I should have told him straight. The other half would say I am the one who keeps picking men who treat sex like a sport.
Both can be true.
I did not tell him straight in the bed. I went funny and bright and then I left. That is my habit. It is not brave. It is just the thing I know how to do when the quiet starts to feel like a house I do not want to sit in.
If I said it out loud it would have been simple. I liked it. Stop counting. Come here.
Three sentences. He might have managed it. He might have looked confused and reached for his phone anyway. I did not stay long enough to find out, which is also a choice, and not a noble one.
What I will ask for next time
Not a speech. I am not turning this into a manifesto I laminate for the bedside table.
Water. A laugh. A body that does not roll away like the job is done. If you want feedback, wait until I have clothes on and blood in my brain. If you want praise, earn it by staying human after. If you want to know whether I came, watch me. Then let the moment be a moment instead of evidence.
I will still like filthy talk. I will still like being wanted in the way that makes my shift feel shorter. I will still leave early some nights because work exists and I like paying my rent. None of that cancels the other thing.
I wanted the slow morning. I wanted the hand on my back. I wanted to feel like the night had a soft edge instead of a clipboard.
Performance reviews can stay at work. My bed is not a meeting. If you cannot tell the difference, you can see yourself out before the kettle even boils.
