He didn’t stay. He never does. Why would he, we have nothing in common.
We fucked so good the sheets fell off the bed. I thought I was good at what I did. I felt special.
He didn’t complain. He also didn’t stay. The two can really be mutually exclusive, but the whole thing makes me feel like I was used up. But that’s what I wanted, right? That’s what I said I wanted, right? That was what I told him I wanted, right? I keep trying to convince myself, but it’s not making sense.
How did I consent to feeling violated?
He doesn’t know any of these thoughts in my head. He doesn’t even look me in the eye.
“In Lakota culture, it is a sign of disrespect to look an elder directly in the eye. You look down out of respect.”
Ha. Tell that to my dad. His low self-esteem was actually him being respectful?
He always leaves. I don’t need him. And I don’t need to see him. I walk in any direction, and he is there. But I don’t see him. You can’t see someone if you don’t look. And I have nothing to look at.
But it happens again and again.
I must really like this shit. I think of all the reasons not to fuck him, and I still end up alone in my bed smelling like him.
At least I feel something. At least I am mature enough to open wide, consume, and expel a man without thinking about it. Can Nick do that? He’s still holding on to the same one. I can’t imagine seeing him. Seeing him trying to be happy in his fuckery.
Am I any better? Two peas in a pod, I guess. I wonder, if it was Nick that I slept with, would he stay?