He always had a cheesy smile on his face while inserting himself in me, which made me think that perhaps he was enjoying it… enjoying me.
But the moment he got a chance, he’d reassure me that I hadn’t satisfied him, that my touch wasn’t gentle, and that I was terrible at reading his body.
Sometimes he couldn’t even wait for an appropriate time to let me know that I was a disappointment. Once, In the middle of an orgasm he told me that he wished he could get rid of my nose; then he buried his face in my neck, cracked up, and said he was kidding — except he wasn’t. I chuckled too, because at any given moment you can get mad, or pretend something doesn’t matter. I chose the latter because why ruin a good orgasm, right?
This dude didn’t like anything about me: from my hair, my features, the way I dressed, my style of communication, and we seldom agreed on philosophy or morality.
He was like Kevin Bacon on the brilliant show “I Love Dick,” and he made assoholism look like poetry from a baby. Our differences were too grand for me to fool myself into thinking we could ever be more than what we were.
He was like a 6.2, although he fancied himself more of an 8, had an ego of a 10, but every once in a while his esteem would plummet to a 3 and that’s when he’d be ruthless. He’d withdraw into the juvenile recesses of his mind where he could not comprehend decency, and that’s when I’d hear about his dream woman and how I wasn’t it. He’d remind me that I shouldn’t fall for him, and if we spent a significant amount of time together he’d inform me that he would not be able to see me for another month or so — which was never the case.
He kept coming back to me — although (according to him) I wasn’t pretty, skinny or good enough. Women like me are the only types he hooks up with. He describes us as stepping stones because he lacks the courage to approach those he truly desires. He thrives in our imperfection, and claims that he wants to be comfortable with the things he doesn’t like, and yet he seeks “perfection.”
If you wonder about my psyche during this time, I do too. I needed to know the truth about my tolerance level. What was I willing to do to combat loneliness? How far would I go to serve my concupiscent appetite? And when I preached about self-love and embracing solitude, did I really mean it?
I learned the most about me with him.
He’d hold me, and kiss me like he meant it. We’d talk for hours about all of life and it made me reminisce about a time when hope was in abundance and I was limitless. He inspired me to go to the farthest reaches of my imagination, and I felt less ordinary. He was a temporary cure for boredom, and I gave to the moments which he sometimes mistook as me giving to him.
When I look back, I think of his big wondrous eyes starring down at me, and how he’d lose himself in-between my legs for what seemed like an eternity until I couldn’t stand it anymore. He liked the thrill of making a woman like me orgasm with the touch of his tongue, and this made him good in bed.
I admit — I liked him more than I should have. He claimed to have had respect for our interaction which he said lead to his growth. He likes experiments, and so therefore likes to mess with the unknown. I don’t doubt his sentiments, but all the same, even if I tried — I could have never loved this man. His fear was 100% unwarranted, and it wasn’t until we were done and settled into an untitled platonic space, that I was sure of it.
He met me at the height of my sexual discovery. He was my experiment. He was my stepping stone to acknowledging my greatness and owning my power. He wasn’t enough for me. Although his brazen comments were often alarming, it was a brief moment in time when I pushed my boundaries in a way that I will never do again — but it provided me with a lot of information.
Here’s the data I collected:
If you can’t love me as much I love me (which is a shit ton) then you certainly don’t have to worry about me falling for you. Yes — even if you fuck well (kudos to you), and even if I gaze into your eyes and turn you into a fantasy (isn’t that what men do all the time?) — it doesn’t mean that I love you. It means that I have a powerful imagination and when it’s time to give you up, I will.
I knew my strength the day (and yes, it literally took seconds) to obliterate every intense sentiment I had ever felt for him. I will be honest — I didn’t think it was going to be like that. I thought I was going to miss him, and that I’d need time to recover. After all, we did share plenty of euphoric moments together and I’d felt hurt by him before — so I had no reason to believe that I’d process it that quickly and move on. And yet, I kept it moving.
Thanks to him I better understand what I would want if I were to have a partner. I’ve had people accuse me of being too picky, and now I’m more unyielding to compromise. I am confident in my solitude. While a warm body and easy conversation is ephemerally comforting, it is not a bargaining chip for quality.
At the end of the day, I fell for moi, while this dude I used to bang thought I’d fall for him.