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.