If this were some script or adaptation to a B-rated movie (at best, I’m flattering myself)…it wouldn’t pass the Bechdel test. I’m not proud or ashamed of that, but it’s a fact.
I never told him I slept with someone else. Honestly, it wasn’t even for his own sake. I was just exhausted at that point. We started being disagreeable for the sport of it…it wasn’t the usual playful exchange that leaves you both not knowing what’s for dinner or if you want to catch a particular movie.
**
Unspectacularly, he had taken my virginity years before—I guess we took each others’, but I have a hard time with that word choice, because I hardly think that I was capable of taking such a thing from someone. Let alone a man. If I had to choose one word to describe it, it would be “uneventful”. I didn’t need fireworks to celebrate my introduction to sex, we were new to it, but it did set the stage for the rest of the relationship. I spent the majority of my time being engaged with mysterious men in online conversations, convincing myself I wasn’t having emotional affairs. Convincing myself that the feelings I harbored—the ones I could feel in my throat every time I swallowed—could be ignored until they were songs I could no longer sing. Didn’t I used to know every word? Every inflection? Now I can only hum along.
Keep in mind, I was an active participant in the relationship, and I had my own set of problems that I brought to the table, like everyone else, I am the hero (and at times, antihero) of my story.
**
A few years had passed and even in my twenties I didn’t expect I’d be sleeping in a separate room from someone I allegedly loved. We didn’t talk about it really, it just sort of happened. One day we were incompatible sleepers (didn’t we try hard enough?) and the next I permanently moved into another room (I can justify this, right?). You can justify anything even when it’s not the best option for you—isn’t that truly remarkable of the human condition? It’s good for both of us because we’re different sleepers, he snores and I’m not getting enough REM sleep, etc… Self-sabotage. Instead of leaving, being roommates while having sex became routine.
Over time things changed. We fought less, possibly because we were having fewer conversations, but it also meant we weren’t treating each other poorly. On paper, things were looking up. We went on day trips and three-day weekends to hike or explore…we worked out and got healthy, the normal ebb and flow of a relationship. It was the illusion you get from any social media account. This was the modern-day equivalent of a house with a white picket fence…of everything you could hope for as a millennial.
His sister said that we were soulmates…that one hurt. Maybe it was my subconscious finally catching up to me, but I woke up one day irreverent of the years we sustained our relationship. That’s when I asked you if you wanted to see me.
**
You were, by all accounts, rough around the edges, and I was still innately attracted to you. I imagined our conversations were in hushed tones, filled with secret smiles. The kind you catch yourself doing in public and hope no one noticed. An acquaintance told me she saw you everywhere after things ended, and I can see that about you. You have a colonial, but firm look about you…ageless, like I’d find you in a historical textbook. Hair disheveled, with ill-fitting clothes, trying to make yourself as ugly as possible—how you felt inside. You explained how reckless you were to me once…and I think you constantly tried to convince me. Honestly, at first I believed you. I wanted to continue to believe you for your sake, but drinking alone late into the night and having strange conversations with alleged friends was hardly reckless. I could see your softness…I had slivers of it that I wanted to hold onto forever. You thought you hid your gloom well.
Every time we were around each other, something felt different like the air was electric. This volley of attraction continued for years, up to the point where I wanted to end my relationship. I think you talked yourself into being a bigger problem than you were. My relationship ending didn’t have anything to do with you, it had been over a long time…we were both too cowardly to do anything about it. I keep convincing myself of this, but is it true?
**
I told him I was meeting up with you to hang out. He had no reason to believe anything out of the ordinary was going to happen because I didn’t, either. By the time I was near you I had almost missed your stop. Out of nowhere, you tapped on the glass and I was surprised you had come to meet me at all. Maybe it was because you knew what was going to happen, but I’d like to think it was because you wanted to make sure I was safe. I want to believe it was kindness.
After knowing you for nearly half of my relationship, we reverted to awkward strangers, and didn’t know what to do with our hands as we walked towards your apartment. I wanted to hold your hand as I did once before, but it didn’t feel right.
We were in your apartment: it’s never what you think it is, and it was a mess. You had mismatched rugs and a sea of cheap liquor bottles everywhere. Everything felt impersonal, like if you were to disappear and we wanted to find clues, there wouldn’t be anything dear to you that could be meaningful to find you.
Immediately following a hurried tour of three indistinguishable rooms we ended up on your couch. We were seated next to each other and were dimly lit by the glow of the tv in distance. Was it Cheers? Frasier? Something you could tune in and out of—it didn’t matter. It took no time at all for us to lock our gaze and deeply kiss while you started to fondle my chest. This happened so quickly and you simultaneously shoved me off to your bedroom down the hall, passed the bathroom. There was nothing but a mattress directly on the ground with sheets strewn about. The never-ending field of patchy brown wall-to-wall carpet had never been vacuumed. Knowing you, I wouldn’t have been surprised if you were just squatting until the next adventure caught your interest.
It gets a little hazy here. I don’t know if you took off the majority of your clothes and mine, or if we both frantically rushed to do it ourselves after years of longing. You didn’t take everything off me, I think you were saving it for last (an unveiling that you wanted to savor). You had it in your head that I was classy, and also naively virginal—but I was never those things…after all, what do you do in a longterm relationship other than explore each other?
You placed me on a pedestal and after quite some time, you were getting what you wanted, and dear reader, so was I. As you slowly slipped inside me, you told me you loved me, and that you’ve been wanting this for so long. We continued throughout the apartment…taking breaks and looking at each other longingly like we could already see the distance this was causing. I wanted this, didn’t I?
**
During one of the breaks, I left the bedroom and laid naked on the floor in front of the sofa, facing the tv. I wasn’t watching anything in particular and I was building some semblance of a story with bits and pieces of the treasures on your floor. Several bottlecaps, lint, corks, and some change later…I made a small monument as a testament of our frail love. I swiped it with my hand, but even then I wasn’t the one who was in control. Maybe he was moving my hand for me, like a marionette.
You came over, softly spread my legs, and came inside me again.
**
In between seeing you again, I ended my relationship. I knew I was never going to sleep with him any more after I had slept with you. This made sense to me, somehow. Damage control. He was devastated, and so was I, but lighter. He skipped our last therapy session, and I ended it alone…like a metaphor. This felt right. But this story is more about us, you and I, than us, me and him. I still think about you periodically.
**
I had too many feelings rush to the surface that I didn’t even consider you knew this would be our last time. You told me that you wanted just this once to be different. When I arrived, I took my earrings and a ring or two off. I didn’t know what I was doing, but it seemed like something necessary. While we stood in your living room, you slowly unzipped my jeans and slapped me across the face. You coddled and assured me that everything was okay. You consoled me while pushing several fingers inside…and we continued for hours, minutes, days…I always lost track of time with you. I didn’t know what I was experiencing, and I nearly wept, but not from pain. I enjoyed this. And, if I break down the part I miss most, aside from our conversations, it was your ability to make my worries fade away—if only momentarily. I think about this often. I think about how much I would enjoy this, with regularity. Sometimes it feels so overwhelming that I think about you, but I know all that we had was passion. You were my catalyst for change.
Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/jtrfyc/fmm_a_slice_of_my_f_sexual_life