I bumped into an ex-boyfriend the other day and the encounter unleashed a flood of memories. It’s funny how the passage of time can smooth the rough edges of a bad relationship. Not that my memories of Raynard* are all bad. But he’s definitely an “ex” for a reason. As a matter of fact, even when we were together I didn’t like him very much.

I know that sounds crazy. But have you ever had great sex with someone you didn’t like? Well that was the nature of our relationship. I didn’t like him and he didn’t like me.

Raynard and I bickered all the time, and not in that cute they-fight-but-both-know-they-belong-together kind of way, either. Our fights were ugly. He said I was bossy and a know-it-all. I thought he was an arrogant asshole. And we argued about everything from religion to college basketball to the best way to eat scrambled eggs.

And yet … there was something about each of us that the other found irresistible. You know that metaphor about the moth and flame? Well, that was us. We were inexplicably drawn to each other and had amazing sex, but that was it.

Physically, I was his “type”: thick and busty. So he was attracted to me immediately. And honestly, I think the fact that I called him on his shit turned him on. He always said that the moment I challenged his beliefs, he knew he wanted to fuck me.

For me the attraction wasn’t physical, at first. Raynard was a nice enough looking guy, but unremarkable. But he exuded sexual prowess in a way that’s hard to describe. The guy had swagger before it was even a thing.

And man, was the sex hot! I mean, we burned up some sheets. I know nothing tops making love with someone you’re connected to emotionally. But there’s something very liberating about steamy sex with someone you don’t like. The emotional stakes are lower, for one thing. And that makes it easier to let go and enjoy the pure physicality of the experience.

I remember this one time in particular…

The setting was about as unromantic as you can imagine. I was in his bathroom, standing at the sink. I had to lean over because I had an eyelash in my eye. We’d planned to “get busy”, but our argument a few minutes earlier killed the mood. I was ready to go home. Plus my eye was irritated.

So there I was, leaning over his sink to get closer to the mirror, when he walked in without knocking. That immediately pissed me off because who does that?

Finally retrieving the errant lash, I glared at him in the mirror. “How’re you just gonna walk up in here without knocking? That’s so rude!”

He just shrugged and said “It’s my house.” Asshole.

I was just about to say something smart when I saw his eyes drop to my ass. It was summer and I was wearing a sundress that came to just above my knees. In the few seconds it took for him to walk from the door to the sink, I knew what was going to happen.

Without saying a word, he reached under my dress and yanked my panties down to my ankles. As I stepped out of them, I spread my legs and met his eyes in the mirror. There was no romantic music playing because only minutes before, we’d been arguing. The television in his bedroom wasn’t even on. The only sound I heard was his zipper and the pounding of my heart.

I bent lower but kept watching him. First, keeping one hand on my hip, he reached around me and opened the medicine cabinet. Grabbing a condom, he tore the wrapper off with his teeth and rolled it on. Then he grabbed my hips with both hands and slammed into me with a loud grunt. I wasn’t that wet, but the raw passion on his face ramped up my arousal. He bit his bottom lip and his nostrils flared as he slowly started thrusting.

“There it is,” he moaned. “There’s that juicy pussy!” He was right. I was getting wetter with each stroke. But as good as it felt, I was still mesmerized by watching him. The tendons in his neck strained. His chest muscles flexed beneath the tee shirt he hadn’t bothered to remove. And his eyes looked dark and dangerous when they met mine again.

“You got me feeling too good,” he moaned. “I’m about to lose control.”

I gave him a little nudge and dropped my shoulders. Taking the hint, Raynard adjusted his stance behind me and started coming at me from a slightly different angle. It was perfect, even though I couldn’t see his reflection anymore.

“How does that feel?” He gave my ass a little slap for emphasis.

“Good,” I gasped, feeling my own control slip. Then he did this thing with his hips and hit my spot. “Oh! Oh, that’s so good!” He hit it again and again.

“Tell me when you’re about to cum,” he grunted. He kept a nice and steady pace, but seemed to somehow go deeper with each stroke.

I struggled to hold onto the slippery porcelain sink as I met each of his thrusts with an even harder thrust of my own. I had to add my own little twist to fully engage my clit, which felt like it had doubled in size, it was so sensitive.

As the pressure started to build, I finally looked in the mirror again. It was hard to do from that angle, but I managed to catch a glimpse of him. Raynard’s face showed the strain of his effort to hold back and that was all it took to push me over the edge.

The wave was so powerful and hit so suddenly, I didn’t have time to warn him. All I could do was scream as my knees started to buckle. If he hadn’t been holding me, I’d have slid right to the floor. But he held on tight and kept grinding until he came too.

When he finally released his grip, I stumbled over to the toilet and sat down with a thud. Still panting, I watched as he slumped against the sink, his eyes still closed. There was no cuddling. No sweet words of love. We didn’t even kiss. We were just two sated lovers trying to catch our breaths.

And that’s how it was with Raynard: raw and unromantic … sex for the sake of sex. And no relationship can last when good sex is all there is. We parted ways for good not too long after the bathroom episode. If memory serves me correctly, he met someone he really liked and that was that.

Seeing him the other day brought back fond memories of those steamy summer days where our genitals got along better than the rest of us did. I don’t miss Raynard, not even a little bit. But there is something to be said for unbridled, unattached sex. And having a mirror around ain’t half bad, either!

*Y’all know the deal. Raynard isn’t his real name. I always change the names and a few details to protect the not-so-innocent.