Coffee Break..

It was like waiting to lose my virginity (yeah, right..). I adjusted and re-adjusted the carefully chosen slutty underwear, the anticipation killing me.

I had made it very clear that on the other-half’s home coming, I didn’t want romance and tears, I wanted hard, passionate sex. Immediately. There would be plenty of time for talking afterwards.

We had exchanged a string of emails over the months he had been away, detailing exactly what we desired to take place when he came home.

Smelling of tangerines (me) and D&G aftershave (him) we kissed like teenagers the second he opened the front door. He carried me to the sofa, kicking the front door shut and proceeded to remove the slutty underwear (waste of time) with his teeth.

Everything was perfect. His hands in my hair, his hot breath on my neck. The months apart were suddenly worth it. There nothing comparable to welcome-home-sex.

And then, hovering above me, he mouthed “Make me a coffee..”

“What?”
“Make me a coffee..”
“WHAT? …No.”
“Babe, please.. I need to wake up a bit..”

His girlfriend, who he hadn’t seen for months, was entirely naked, begging him to stop the foreplay and just fuck her already – and he wanted a coffee?

I stared at him, feeling tears welling inside me. The self destructive tune of “What did I do wrong?” playing like a broken record in my head.

He kissed my face and led me by the hand to the kitchen. I grinned at him, understanding that he didn’t actually want coffee, he wanted sex, in the kitchen.

But as he flicked the switch on the kettle, it all became horribly clear. We weren’t going to have sex in the kitchen, or anywhere else for that matter. I steadied myself against the kitchen worktop, the tune in my head changing to “What did he do?”

Instead of being fucked relentlessly over the kitchen table, I was told to sit down at the kitchen table. And there, I heard the fatal words:

“I need to take a HIV test..”

I suddenly became painfully aware of the fact that I was naked, vulnerable. Pulling my knees to my chest, I vocalised my thoughts..
“What have you done..?” - my voice shuddered and I winced at the prospect of an answer I didn’t want to hear.

A long conversation (him) and a bottle of wine (me) later, we established that he hadn’t been unfaithful. But working in Africa obviously meant there was a heightened risk of contracting disease. A colleague had had blood splashed in his eyes, but as far as the other-half knew, there was no reason for him to be concerned. However, he couldn’t be sure he hadn’t had any contact at all..

“Just to be safe..”, he said, pressing a condom into my hands.

My heart swelled and sank at the same time. I loved him for caring, I loved him for wanting to protect me – just in case. I was proud of him for volunteering to work in Africa, but at the same time – I resented him for putting himself in danger.

Selfishly, I resented his kindness and his dedication to work. I had known there were risks, but in my naivety, I had assumed he would just be alright.

We made love later that night. It wasn’t relentless passionate sex, there was no tying up or blindfolding, no dirty talk, no earth shattering orgasms.. Instead, we stared at each other, wrapped up in the simple sensations of skin-on-skin.

He traced circles on my back before he fell asleep, and I laid in his arms listening to him breathe, tears splashing as they hit his chest.

I was relieved he was finally home, but I was terrified of the consequences of loving someone who took risks, who cared for others with such selfless abandon.

He hadn’t been unfaithful.. So why did I feel cheated?