0.5% The Missing Aftercare

The After That Never Comes

If this were the walk of shame, I’d happily do it with him. There’d be no shame in it though.

I just had sex so good I glided home like I’d been blessed by a gay fairy godmother.

It wasn’t the perfunctory, or the empty “we should do this again sometime” kind. More like where your nervous system is fried, your brain is offline, and your body feels like it’s been rebooted with a major upgrade. Like when you went from a Blackberry to an iPhone and suddenly realized you’d been living in a technological orphanage, sending carrier pigeons while everyone else had FaceTime and a personality. A solid 9.5.

And then it died.

It wasn’t because the sex was bad, because the sex itself was unreal. I don’t hand out 9.5’s like candy floss at a fair or participation trophies to men terrified of eye contact and basic tenderness. It died because of what came after, or rather, what didn’t.

Hot sex is easy. Most people can perform. Sweat, moans, grabbing the sheets, saying “fuck” like it’s punctuation. That part is almost automatic. A trained monkey could get a decent rhythm going after two wines and a Spotify playlist, and honestly I’ve had some suspiciously similar experiences.

Sex ends and you’re handed a towel like you’ve spilled something. Spoiler: some people like this spillage. In fact, there are entire corners of the internet dedicated to people being absolutely drenched in it with better lighting and less shame. Half my characters swallow it, or it ends up deep inside them.

If they start checking their phone like you’re an email that’s already been filed, archived, and emotionally deleted, this is for you.

If they shift their body away from yours like they’ve suddenly remembered you’re a stranger, a mild inconvenience, or a man who might ask how their day was, which is obviously unacceptable, then you’re missing that 0.5%.

If the air changes, like… properly. Like someone opened a door to a freezer stocked entirely with unresolved trauma and avoidance… yeah.

You feel it before you understand it. The temperature drops, the silence gets loud, and suddenly you’re aware of where your clothes are, how far the door is, and how quickly this has gone from “come here” to “okay, so I’ve got an early morning.”

You walk home still warm, still relaxed, still carrying the high, like you’re floating through the street with your spine full of glitter.

And then you sit on your couch, remote in hand, Netflix loading screen judging you in HD, and you start thinking.

It isn’t sadness, or regret, just emptiness. Like your body never got to finish the experience properly, so it just shuts down instead, like Windows crashing because you clicked one innocent link and now nothing works but you’re not sure what you broke.

And at first, you don’t even know what’s wrong.

You think that hollow, slightly awkward feeling is just… normal. You assume that’s how everyone feels afterward. You walk home, mildly sweaty, emotionally scrambled, pretending you’ve just had “good sex” because technically, on paper, you did.

You don’t know anything is missing.

Then one day, it isn’t.

Sometimes, you end up with someone who doesn’t immediately roll away from you like they’ve just touched a hot stove. They don’t grab their phone like they’re checking for a getaway car. They don’t spring out of bed dragging their jeans up one leg like they’ve suddenly remembered they left the oven on. They just… stay for an extra few minutes.

Their body stays close. A hand rests on you without treating it like a mistake. No urgency or escape plan. No sudden personality shift from “how fast can you get here” to “right, so… you’re ordering an Uber, yeah?”

And here’s the cruel part.

You don’t notice it in the moment.

You just feel calmer. Less hollow. Less weird. Like your body didn’t get shoved out of the experience halfway through.

Later is when it fucks you up.

Because once someone has done that, once someone has accidentally given you warmth and touch and softness without making it feel like a marriage proposal, suddenly everything else looks cheap. You start replaying old nights and thinking, oh… that’s what was missing.

What nobody seems capable of is the aftercare. That tiny, almost insignificant 0.5%.

Not love, commitment or vows. Just not being treated like a taxi that needs to leave immediately.

That’s when you get bitter.

And I know this because it’s the part I can’t stop thinking about. In real life and on the page. It’s never the act that sticks, it’s always the pause people swear doesn’t matter. The look that turns sex into a moment.

That’s what changes everything.

People have this insane belief that aftercare is needy, soft, emotional, like sitting quietly beside someone you were just inside of is somehow more intimate than what you just did.

You can have your face buried in someone’s butt crack, sweat glued to skin, heartbeats matching, mouths everywhere, but God forbid you sit next to each other for two minutes afterward without it feeling like a commitment ceremony or a mortgage application.

The problem is that the next time that person texts you, you’ll hesitate, and it won’t be because the sex wasn’t good. It won’t be because you didn’t want them. Your body just remembers the walk home and the missing aftercare.

Your brain logs it as: hot, but empty.

Like eating McDonald’s or Burger King. Great for ten minutes, then you’re still hungry and slightly ashamed.

The cruel joke is that the most emotionally unavailable people are usually brilliant in bed. They can set you on fire. But it’s like being thrown out a window the second you cum. Nobody wants sex so good you end up airborne and emotionally concussed.

And yes, before you say it, I know.

Have I gone back?

Obviously.

The kisser: too emotional, too clingy, too “are you okay?” mid-thrust. He got an 8.

The cop: emotionally constipated, messages like a police report, sex like a controlled burn. He got a 8.

Weepy cried after orgasm like he’d just watched the entire Pixar catalog. He got an 8.5.

Which one did I call again?

The cop.

Not because he was better in bed, it was because he gave an extra 0.5% and I felt validated. He actually messaged me after every single fuck to let me know he had a good time. That 0.5% worked.

That’s the difference.

Aftercare should be part of the sex.

And if someone can make you feel like a god for twenty minutes, but can’t sit beside you for two more with a hand on your back?

It wasn’t perfect sex.

It was athletic fucking followed by emotional illiteracy.

Which, unfortunately, is everywhere.

And yes, that’s probably why the men I write never stop at the thrusting. They stay, they touch and add that tiny percentage that almost feels unnecessary but in fact is crucial.

Once you’ve felt that, in real life or on a page, it’s hard to settle for less.

Go the extra 0.5.

See what happens. Be that guy.

Your phone will probably light up like a slutty Christmas tree.

Speaking of slutty Christmas trees, Officer Needs a Warm Hole 16 dropped this week and that 0.5% has definitely been taken care of. Oh, and if you haven’t read it yet… slutty bottom boi is now known as… 😉

Railing the Man she Married dropped, which I originally wrote for Boyslut, but it was too long, too slow burn and so I decided to keep it as mine. I’m glad I did because that story’s really hot. My first time writing a stepdad fantasy, and it appears many of you have enjoyed it already. Thank you for your feedback, I will drop a poll (because I know how much you love them) below on whether we need a part two.

Under Surveillance 4 dropped. Things are finally heating up. If you haven’t read it, I won’t spoil it, but it is finally… paying off.

And finally, the finale for What I Found in the Bathroom Stall dropped. That’s it, that’s the story over. There may be a season 2, but I’ll have to think very carefully about a plot and arcs, if I can make it worth your while, I’ll definitely create it.

Podcast 7 is coming… yeah I know, so is Christmas, but I’m hoping to finish it this weekend. If you haven’t already, check out previous podcasts.

Speaking of Christmas, it has come early. Last week I dropped my proverbial pants (prices) so that more free subscribers can see everything and join in the fun. I did my bit, now you do yours. You wanted better prices, so here you are. Ahem.

I hope your weekend is filled with… lots of things that need a towel to clean up.

Fox