to you.
I. I did not love you. I did not even like you. I liked the attention you gave me. You kissed me with this voracious hunger. I wondered when the last time you were intimate with someone was. You shared the story of how you lost your virginity in the backseat of a car in the middle of a forest preserve while we lay post-coitus. I acknowledge that you took mine, but I didn’t feel a thing. You left in a hurry, high and in a daze— dropping off souvenirs. I told you I wasn’t looking, you told me, “Just in the wrong places.”
II. We met on OKCupid. You spoke with this syrupy Kentucky drawl that you tried to cover up with that goofy smile of yours. We shared a love for the ukulele, and we drowned our nerves in a pitcher of sweet tequila nectar and gorged ourselves three-dollar tacos. A couple blocks from my favorite bar, you decided to sneak off into a side alley because you had to drunkenly piss the alcohol away. I was supposed to meet someone else that night, but we cuddled up next to each other and before I knew it— our lips collided. You woke up to a hand on your dick, and I woke up to your cat brushing up against my right cheek, purring into my ear. I left your apartment the next day with a puffy face and covered in rashes.
III. I knew what sex actually felt like with you. The other two were just trial-runs, and this was what it was supposed to feel like. It surprised me. It didn’t hurt. You were premature. I knew nothing about you. And I’m glad it stayed that way.
IV. I gave so much of myself to you that I cannot begin to fathom how I will put myself back together again. It started off slow, with cute little interstate text messages. “Let me take you out for sushi.” “Just as friends.” “Right. Just friends.” When I was in Brooklyn, it slowly progressed to after-work phone calls. “I don’t like text messaging. I just wanted to hear your voice.” “I don’t like phone calls, but I’ll make an exception for you.” After that, I called you high from my friend’s living room in New Haven. I left you a voicemail, the contents of which I am blissfully unaware. Then, from my cousin’s childhood bedroom in New Jersey. You chuckled at the fact that I kept dozing off and stumbling on phrases and words. I did not know what I was saying or doing— but you called me cute and called it a night when I got incoherent. When we finally met, you asked me out for lunch over hotpot in Chinatown. I agreed because “lunch” implied a step towards a positive platonic relationship. Wrong. Five dates later, over an awkward “What is this?” talk, we consummated our relationship and jumped into a clusterfuck of ambiguity and apathy. It quickly transitioned into one of disillusionment and annoyance. Instead of the sounds of playful banter, our lives were full of awkward silences. The closest we came to true communication was when you came inside of me. Fucking to avoid became a routine until the last weekend we spent together. You asked me if we could just cuddle, and we fell asleep until I realized it was five in the morning and you had to go to work in a couple hours. I kissed you goodbye and sent you home in a cab. We both knew it was over. I still don’t know what making love is like, but you were the closest I ever got. (I know you got a new girl now. I wonder if she fucks and sucks like me.)
V. You slipped it in and I couldn’t feel you. I guess that is indicative of the majority of the time we dated. (You ended things over Facebook, like cowards do.) I insisted that it wasn’t you, it was me. I couldn’t keep having sex with people that I wasn’t exclusively with and you told me it was “ok” but that “wasn’t how you viewed things and you weren’t ready for a relationship.” I was surprisingly fine with that, and I made you come in five minutes from a blowjob instead— citing that was “the best blowjob [you’ve] ever had.” Happy birthday to me.
VI. You’re a manipulative son of a bitch that I just can’t quit. Half the time I want to yell at you because every time you step into the picture, my heart fucking breaks a little. I can’t tell if you fuck me until I’m numb, or if I’m numb because you fuck me— but I can’t keep living like this. I feel a raging fire blazing and I know it’s not real. I know it’s destructive, but the times I’ve collapsed onto my floor, my bed, my couch, my roommate’s futon— are all indicative of the power you have over me. I lose a little respect for myself every time I sleep with you. I’m far from full capacity, but I’m trying to quit you. I just can’t. I’m so sick of writing about you. Feelings always get in the way of fucking and I’d be fine with it if you felt the same way. (But you don’t.)