I'm Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend How to Dance, Entourage, Mrs. Ari/Dana Gordon, powerlp_drumline7January 27 2009, 18:55:12 UTC
When he tells you that he might have fucked her, that he maybe fucked her, that, okay, yes, he did fuck her, it's not like you didn't know. Two years you've known the man, back in those days, and you can still tell the day after that he's fucked her.
You're not mad. It's not like you two were even really dating, or exclusive.
You just didn't get there first, and that kind of pisses you off. You don't like to lose.
It's not like there's any way you can go back in time, get there first on your own. The world doesn't work like that.
Revenge is just a dish best served cold, so when she shows up, she looks fucking fantastic in that red dress, at this stupid mixer (is she even Jewish? You don't think she's Jewish, she's not allowed here), you take matters into your own hand. It's about power, baby, who's gonna end up on top, and when you grab her by the hair and pull her in a little rougher than you could have, with him standing not even ten feet away, there's a sickening kind of satisfaction in having him see it all.
You're into the bathroom soon after you're rocking a thigh between her legs, pushing her up against the counter and pulling down that dress (that stupid red dress), kissing breasts and you're probably hurting her, but you don't care, not when you peel back those panties (matching red, lace, she was going to fuck him tonight too, wasn't she?) and press your fingers in, lavish in that sharp gasp.
Knocks at the door but you're not listening.
"Is this about--"
"Like I'd fucking tell you."
"Because there's no other reason for you--"
"Be quiet. Pay attention."
She's a screamer, you find out, when you press your thumb up against her clit in that right way and get a pretty raucous yell. And you rock your hips together, kiss her long and slow and a little intimidating before you break off to graze her ear, free hand cupping her cheek.
"He's mine, doll."
"He's all yours."
It's about power, with these kinds of people.
You're just satisfied to know that even without your father's name scaring people around, you can still keep yourself right back on that fucking top.
You're not mad. It's not like you two were even really dating, or exclusive.
You just didn't get there first, and that kind of pisses you off. You don't like to lose.
It's not like there's any way you can go back in time, get there first on your own. The world doesn't work like that.
Revenge is just a dish best served cold, so when she shows up, she looks fucking fantastic in that red dress, at this stupid mixer (is she even Jewish? You don't think she's Jewish, she's not allowed here), you take matters into your own hand. It's about power, baby, who's gonna end up on top, and when you grab her by the hair and pull her in a little rougher than you could have, with him standing not even ten feet away, there's a sickening kind of satisfaction in having him see it all.
You're into the bathroom soon after you're rocking a thigh between her legs, pushing her up against the counter and pulling down that dress (that stupid red dress), kissing breasts and you're probably hurting her, but you don't care, not when you peel back those panties (matching red, lace, she was going to fuck him tonight too, wasn't she?) and press your fingers in, lavish in that sharp gasp.
Knocks at the door but you're not listening.
"Is this about--"
"Like I'd fucking tell you."
"Because there's no other reason for you--"
"Be quiet. Pay attention."
She's a screamer, you find out, when you press your thumb up against her clit in that right way and get a pretty raucous yell. And you rock your hips together, kiss her long and slow and a little intimidating before you break off to graze her ear, free hand cupping her cheek.
"He's mine, doll."
"He's all yours."
It's about power, with these kinds of people.
You're just satisfied to know that even without your father's name scaring people around, you can still keep yourself right back on that fucking top.
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