The Ex Talk

by Rachel Lynn Solomon

  “Tonight’s wine pairing is a vintage bottle of Two-Buck Chuck,” he says, fishing two wineglasses from a cupboard. “I hope you can handle that level of extravagance.”

  We sit down at his white IKEA table that has only two chairs.

  “What do you think?” he asks, waiting for my assessment before he digs in.

  I take a chewy, cheesy, saucy bite. “Oh. Oh shit, that’s good.”

  “It’s really just a hobby,” he says, but I can tell he’s pleased. “But I may listen to a cooking podcast or two. I do, however, have to apologize on behalf of this sad, sad salad. I wanted you to think I was, like, a halfway functioning adult and that I can make meals with more than one food group.”

  “What even is a functioning adult? I ate two bagels for dinner yesterday.” The pizza nearly burns my tongue, but it’s so good that I don’t care.

  To my surprise, the rest of dinner is far from the slog I worried it would be when Dominic asked to table our impending serious discussion. Maybe after Orcas, nothing about Dominic should surprise me.

  “I was thinking of what we talked about this weekend, about not having many friends,” I tell him when there are only crumbs left on our plates. “And I had this idea. We should challenge ourselves to each make a friend date with someone.” Besides, I’ve been meaning to ask Ruthie to drinks again, or maybe dinner.

  “A friend date?” he asks, but the corners of his mouth twitch upward. “Okay. You’re on.” He drags his index finger up and down the stem of his wineglass. “Speaking of this weekend . . . I had a lot of fun.”

  “I did, too,” I say. “And . . . I wouldn’t be opposed to it happening again. If you feel the same way.”

  In response, he reaches across the table, turns my hand over so he can run that finger up my palm. Up to my wrist, circling my pulse point. That small intentional touch is enough to make me shiver. He must be able to sense it, because he’s tugging me out of my seat and over to him.

  “Hi,” I say when I’m standing in front of him, my legs against his knees. I am very, very happy to be wrong about the direction this conversation took.

  “Hi.” He strokes his fingers up the backs of my thighs, and when he cups my ass and pulls me onto his lap, it becomes clear that whatever talk we were about to have is going to need to wait.

  It feels different, kissing him in his apartment, in his kitchen, his mouth wine-tart. Our lips fit together like they didn’t learn each other’s shape only two days ago. He runs his hands over my legs, up my back, tangles them in my hair. We kiss and we kiss and I press against his shirt’s softness, searching for something rougher. Finally, I tug it open, button by button, exploring the muscles of his chest.

  He’s hard beneath me, and I position myself so I can feel him exactly where I want to. When I rock against him, he groans into my ear. I could listen to that groan on repeat for the rest of the night. Longer, probably.

  “You’re evil,” he growls as I rub myself back and forth across the stiff front of his jeans.

  He stands up with me wrapped around him, and I’m wondering if this is some signature move or if I just fit against him this perfectly. Once he’s vertical, we stumble down the hall to his bedroom.

  Gently, I push away from him to take it all in. His room is small, a queen bed in the corner with a plain navy comforter. The furniture is IKEA again, a basic bedframe and dresser—and propped up on top of it, a box of condoms. Like it’s been waiting for us.

  I can’t help laughing at it, and yet knowing he planned for this makes me want him even more.

  “I wanted to be prepared,” he says against my mouth, but he’s laughing, too.

  “I have some in my bag, too.”

  “You know—” He puts a foot of space between us. His hair is wild, cheeks flushed. My blazer is somewhere in the hall and my jeans are half-unzipped. “You can change your mind at any time.”

  “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to get rid of me.”

  “No. I swear. I’m just . . . not good at this. I told you, I’ve only been with one person. I don’t know how these things usually go. Or what we’re supposed to talk about. I want to do this with you. A lot.” When he laughs again, it lands somewhere in the center of my heart. “It’s all I’ve been able to think about since Saturday night. But I just want you to know, if you decide you don’t want to, it’s okay.”

  I try not to notice how I want to do this with you is not I want to be with you. But god, I want this, too—so badly I can’t think straight.

  “Dominic,” I say, closing the space between us and placing my hands on his chest, deciding to be as clear with him as I possibly can. “I want you to fuck me.”

  That’s all it takes. He leans in and crushes his mouth to mine, propelling me backward until I hit the bed and drag him down on top of me. I changed into a black lace bra and panties after work, and it’s worth it for the way he groans when he gets my shirt unbuttoned. Maybe he didn’t care about my sports bra, but he definitely doesn’t hate this one.

  We’re clawing at each other now, my shirt and bra dropping to the floor, his jeans and boxer briefs in a heap next to them.

  He kisses my breasts as he works my jeans down my legs. “Can you say that thing again? About what you wanted me to do?”

  “What thing—oh.” I grin, dragging my fingers across his back. “I want you to fuck me.”

  His cock pulses against my bare thigh, and he casts off my jeans in one swift motion. “Yes. That.”

  So Dominic Yun likes dirty talk.

  I can work with that.

  Then he’s on top of me again, kissing me hard and deep while his fingers stroke the silk of my underwear. I might die if I have to wear them for much longer.

  “How do you feel even better than last time?” His mouth travels down my body, but when he lowers his head between my legs, I instinctively clench up. “What? Should I not—”

  “No, no,” I say quickly, trying to haul him back up to me, but he doesn’t budge. “I just—you don’t have to. I don’t really—I’m not sure I can—” And now it’s my turn to be awkward.

  A sly smile curves his lips. “Shay Goldstein. Have you never had an orgasm from oral sex?”

  I shake my head, feeling a flush creep up my neck. “I mean, I don’t mind it. But if it doesn’t happen,” I add quickly, “it’s okay. We can . . . you know. Skip it.”

  “You don’t mind it,” he says matter-of-factly, his finger brushing the damp silk between my thighs. “You don’t think I could make you even wetter than you are right now?”

  “I—I’m sure you could,” I manage as he continues moving his finger in a torturous circle. Christ. He can’t be some kind of oral sex savant, can he?

  He bends to kiss along my inner thighs, gently at first. Then he removes my underwear, kisses beneath my navel before dipping lower. “So this is something you wouldn’t mind?” His tongue starts slowly, a whisper of pleasure as he steadies me with a hand on my hip. He slips one finger inside me—but only for a moment before he draws it back out. I clutch at his hair as he does it again. “Should I stop?”

  “Don’t you dare.”

  He gives me this smirk as he lowers his head again. It’s only when I’m desperate for release that he flattens his tongue against my clit, settling into a rhythm that makes my head spin.

  I grab at anything I can wrap a fist around—his hair, the sheets, the top of his ear. He doesn’t let up, single-minded in his mission. I’m dizzy and lost and oh and yes and then I’m coming hard against his tongue, not caring how I sound or if anyone in the neighboring apartments can hear.

  “That,” I say when I can make words again, “was really fucking amazing.”

  His mouth is glistening and he’s grinning like he’s given me the best gift I’ve ever received. I’m greedy for more, pointing helplessly at the condoms on
his dresser. He sheaths himself quickly, then leans over me and positions himself at my entrance.

  “You good?” he says between heavy breaths.

  “I’ll be even better when you’re inside me.” Slowly, slowly, he slides in—and then pulls back out. “God. You really like teasing.”

  “This is going to make me sound incredibly suave, but since it’s been a while, and since watching you come like that was maybe the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, I’m not sure how long I can actually last,” he admits. “So I’m trying not to . . . you know.”

  “I’ll try to be less sexy?”

  He chokes on a laugh as he guides himself back inside. Stretching me. “Just promise me you’ll give me another chance if I only go ten seconds this time, because there are about twenty different ways I’d like to fuck you.”

  Jesus. I’ve never talked this much during sex. The occasional dirty talk, sure, but not the frankness we have with each other. The ability to laugh. It was always a race to shed our clothes, to put tab A into slot B. This is oddly freeing.

  “I promise,” I say, letting out a gasp as he fills me completely.

  He feels so good, so right that I can’t believe we’ve never done this before. At first I’m mesmerized by the sight of him pumping into me until I flick my gaze back to his, pull his face to mine so I can kiss him. Together we find a rhythm, and he must notice my hand drifting down between us because he meets me there. A muscle in his jaw and down his neck tightens, like he’s trying to hold back.

  I arch my back to take him deeper as he draws a nipple into his mouth, sucking hard until I’m coming again. After a few more thrusts, his body shakes on top of mine, and he lets out this raw, shattered sound, burying himself even deeper than I thought possible. I have no idea how long it lasts, only that I’m completely spent at the end of it.

  He withdraws, removing the condom and tying it off before throwing it away in the bathroom. I miss his warmth almost immediately, but I’m not entirely sure what to do now. I’m not spending the night—that’s not what this is. If I spend the night, if he even wanted me to . . . I’d be utterly and completely lost to him.

  So I swing my legs to the side of the bed, which makes him frown when he gets back.

  “You’re leaving?” he says, and the surprise in his voice makes me regret moving so quickly.

  “I don’t have to.” I sink back into the bed.

  “Good.” He slides in next to me, drawing me close against his chest. I press my face into the space where his neck meets his shoulder, listening to the rhythm of our breaths.

  It kills me, how he goes from sexy to sweet in a matter of minutes. It feels too nice, this closeness, the heat of his body and the earthy smell of sex.

  “Dominic,” I start. “We should talk about this.”

  A pause, and then: “I guess we probably should.” He pushes up next to me so we’re both sitting. I don’t want to have this conversation in the nude, so I grab my shirt, and he must get the hint because he pulls on a pair of boxers. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s talk.”

  “This”—I motion to the bed—“was extremely enjoyable.”

  “I agree.”

  The problem with this conversation is that I don’t know where to go from here. I don’t know what I want, and he’s so tough to read that I couldn’t even guess at what he wants.

  When I’m silent for a beat too long, he says, “Maybe I could learn to do the casual thing.”

  “Oh,” I say, unsure how to feel about that. “Yeah?” I can’t say I’m not anxious about keeping the show out of jeopardy. This might be the only way to do it.

  He nods. “We’re adults. We’re being safe. If we can act normal at work, I don’t see why we should stop.” He pauses, glancing down between us, where he links his fingers with mine. “If you’re cool with it.”

  Casual. It didn’t feel casual when he asked if I’d ever had an orgasm from oral sex. It didn’t feel casual when he said there were about twenty different ways he wanted to fuck me. And it definitely didn’t feel casual, the way he draped his arm over my back and toyed with the ends of my hair.

  “Casual,” I say, trying to picture it. Sneaking around at work, showing up at his apartment at night. “Yeah. Okay. So . . . should we come up with rules, then? I haven’t really done this before either, but I—I’m not sleeping with anyone else.”

  He makes a face as though this never would have occurred to him. “I wouldn’t.”

  I exhale with relief. “And no spending the night, I assume?”

  “Oh. Okay,” he says with another strange expression.

  “Good,” I say, hoping he doesn’t hear how tentative I sound.

  “Good,” he agrees, squeezing my hand. “I’m glad we figured that out.”

  But I’m wondering why casual was his first instinct. If it didn’t cross his mind that this should be anything other than casual, I’ll have to make sure it doesn’t cross mine, either. It’s safer, really, to hook up with someone so clearly wrong for me. It’ll have to prevent me from getting attached.

  The way we were on the island, those late-night conversations—that was friendship. It wasn’t a prelude to a relationship. There isn’t anything I can realistically have with him that isn’t casual.

  If this is the only way I can have him, then I have to be okay with it.

  The Ex Talk, Episode 7: Love Me Tinder

  Transcript

  SHAY GOLDSTEIN: Here’s a good one. Someone in a bright blue skin suit with a bio that just says, “Are you brave enough to find out what’s underneath?”

  DOMINIC YUN: How about this? “I’m spontaneous and impulsive. I have my ex’s lip print tattooed somewhere on my body. I’ll only show you on our third date.”

  SHAY GOLDSTEIN: And then a winking emoji?

  DOMINIC YUN: There’s always a winking emoji.

  SHAY GOLDSTEIN: Unless there’s a smirking emoji.

  DOMINIC YUN: Is this a bad time to mention the tattoo of your name on my lower back? It’s very tasteful.

  25

  Casual turns out to be more fun than I expected.

  Later that week, Dominic sits next to me during a meeting, placing his hand on my thigh underneath the table. Every so often, his thumb brushes the bare skin beneath my skirt.

  The following week, when we find ourselves alone in that wonderfully slow-moving elevator, I drop to my knees and see how close I can get him before we hit the bottom floor.

  When we get out of the elevator like nothing happened, Dominic surreptitiously buckling his belt, I trail his car to his apartment, and we try three and a half of his aforementioned twenty positions.

  It’s for the best that I don’t have to worry about whether this thing with Dominic is anything other than casual because Ameena gets the job offer Friday afternoon. By the time she calls to tell me about it, she’s already accepted. Ameena is stellar at what she does, so I’m not surprised that she got the offer. Nor am I surprised that she accepted, given that this is her dream job.

  What does surprise me: that when I get to her Capitol Hill apartment on Saturday evening before we head out for a celebratory dinner, there are already boxes everywhere.

  “I might have been a little overeager,” she says. “They want me to start next month, which is soon, I know, so we’re flying out next weekend to look at apartments. Maybe even a house—the cost of living is much lower than it is here.”

  “It’s not that bad here,” I say feebly, even though it is. But some part of me is wounded that she’s had the job for less than twenty-four hours and she’s already dumping on the city we both grew up in.

  She lifts a penciled eyebrow. As kids, we used to stare at ourselves in the mirror, practicing trying to raise one eyebrow and then the other. I could never pull it off, but Ameena mastered it. “Our rent is nearly three thousand a month.”


  It’s midsixties and breezy, typical for May in Seattle, so Ameena grabs a cardigan before she and TJ follow me out the door of their early twentieth-century building. It was a steal when they signed the lease a couple years ago. They live within walking distance of numerous bars, restaurants, music venues, and cute boutiques. Things that seem important in your early twenties but maybe not as crucial in your late twenties, even less so when you’re past thirty, I imagine. The only thing within walking distance of my house is a gas station. And, you know, other houses.

  TJ slings an arm around her shoulder as we pass groups of Capitol Hill hipsters vaping outside bars. I try not to think about how if Dominic were my boyfriend, I’d be bringing him to this dinner instead of going alone, awkwardly clomping along behind them since the sidewalk isn’t wide enough for three people.

  “God, it’s loud in here,” Ameena says when we settle into a booth at a tapas bar we’ve been to a few times. “I’ve never realize how loud it is in Seattle.”

  “Pretty sure they have bars in Virginia, too,” I say under my breath, not trying to sound like a dick, but doesn’t she realize that I’m still going to be living here in this loud, expensive place? Without her?

  We order drinks and a handful of small plates to start. At the booth next to us, a trio of tech bros are talking about a Tesla one of them bought. He has the nerve to say he can’t believe he had to wait so long for it to be delivered.

  “Imagine complaining about your Tesla,” TJ says, taking a sip of an overpriced purple drink.

  “Add that to my list of things I won’t miss,” Ameena says.

  This hits a nerve. “Okay, seriously?” I say.

  Her eyebrow leaps up in that practiced way again. “What?” she asks, voice threaded with frustration.

  “You. Shitting on Seattle all of a sudden. I’m thrilled for you, I really am, and I know we’re supposed to be celebrating. But do you know how hard it is to sit next to you while you talk about how happy you are to be getting out of this place?”