“I think it's time for you to leave now,” I said to Kevin, as I motioned my head towards the door.

“Are you really going to fuck those festival freaks?” He seemed genuinely concerned.

Who is the real freak here, I thought, the kids having fun or the thirty-five-year-old guy hanging out with them?

My parents were out of town for the weekend, so naturally I had to invite some festival friends over to trip. None of us worked regularly. We were all deadbeat, trippy hippies, and we lived off of our parents, yes, even the thirty-five-year-old man.

It was summer on Long Island, which meant lazy days at the beach and by the pool. I wore a breezy sundress with nothing underneath, he was in a pair of shorts, nothing underneath. Shirts weren’t necessary for a man with a chest and abs and arms like that. I objectified him and used him for his body and drugs. He thought we were in love.

“I haven't decided yet. It doesn't really concern you,” I said flippantly. If I wanted to fuck the festival freaks I would.

“Doesn't concern me? I'm your boyfriend!”

We’d met at the farmers market. I was selling flowers and making sexual comments about them. He asked for my number and I declined, instead, taking his, with no intent to text. Later that night, horny in bed, I texted. We hung out; he smoked me up and we fucked. He was a very intense person and being around him always felt like what we were doing was very important, even if it was just a jam session in his room. We were going to be stars, he told me. I believed him for a bit, but I wouldn’t call him a boyfriend.

“Are you?” I replied and started to back him up towards the bed until he sat down. “You’re just a dick. I can get myself off better with my vibrator.” I grabbed mine from my bedside table drawer and turned it on, placing it on my pussy.

His hands moved up to cup my boobs, but I slapped them back down.

“Don't fucking touch me, you sicko,” I said.

I continued to buzz my vibrator over my clit, completely ignoring his shorts-covered penis that was straining the fabric so much that it threatened to put another hole in them. Yes, there was a small hole there from his erections. It was almost as if he were proud of it. In my mind he shouldn’t have been proud of it, he should have been ashamed.

I’d never talked to a guy like this before, but something about him just made it feel right. It excited me. Maybe it was his stupid-looking face with its stupid, chiseled jawline or his stupid dick he seemed so proud of. Maybe it was how dominant he usually was with me, flipping me this way and that, throwing me on various soft surfaces, and picking me up while continuing to fuck me. I just wanted to degrade him.

“You think you're so tough? ‘I've been in jail!’ Well, guess what? A lot of the people I've fucked have been in jail, so you're not special and you're not that tough.”

Then, I pushed his muscular torso back into the bed, so that he was laying down. He didn't try to resist. I straddled his face and started humping it furiously. His face was clean-shaven, so it felt nice on my pussy.

I then moved back down his torso and grabbed his cock and impaled myself on it. I began bouncing my slick pussy up and down. He tried to touch me again, but I told him not to, and he complied. I was busy getting myself off and needed to focus.

He tried thrusting up, but I stopped him and continued to ride him at my speed. His frustration made me smile.

I then grabbed a spare joint from my bedside table and lit it and smoked while continuing to fuck him. This was a move I’d learned from Surfer Guy, the first man I’d been with. He tried to reach for the joint.

“No. This is mine,” I said and inhaled again.

I snubbed it out on an ashtray, but not before I seriously considered ashing it on him. He looked like he was about to cum.

“Don’t you dare cum in me.” I was reckless not using a condom, but the pull-out technique hadn’t failed me thus far. I would not be having any of his psychotic babies. He pulled out and left the house, begging me to call him. I didn’t watch him drive off, but I heard the Volkswagen driving away with all its dumb mods.

I walked back downstairs to address my guests.

“Sorry about that. I got rid of him,” I said, “Would you guys like any more beverages or appetizers?”

The moral of the story: never trust a Kevin. And yes, I fucked the festival freaks.