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The Things We do for Love

September 12, 2017

I started writing this article, or tried to start writing it. I’ve named 2 different files “The 11 Year Itch” and then proceeded to not talk about what I wanted to talk about.

This is my third attempt and we still aren’t there.

Still spooked from retrograde methinks. Or everything that has ever happened in the history of ever.

Don’t want to jinx anything.

Thought that very thought and sat down to write this.

It can’t be jinxed. Nothing can. It either is or it isn’t.

I also had a Facebook fueled flashback wherein, right before I published this blog, one of my exes who I meant to write about had been stalking me, got drunk and hit ‘like’ on a post, which turned into a conversation wherein we buried the past and made peace.

Memories, of the way we were, and what we did.

Which of course was the snowflake that started an avalanche of thought.

I have done some fucked up shit in the name of love.

Said ex was waiting for me in the bedroom one night, dressed up in women’s clothes.

I cared for him and called it love, as much as my 24 year old brain could possibly love.

So I didn’t run.

We talked about it, explored the new parameters and landed on “this doesn’t do anything for me but I respect your need/want for this”. And we fucked, and I stayed for quite a while, until I left for other reasons.

Cut to 2 boyfriends later. He came equipped with his own dildo, it was part of the package. And I indulged in his getting fucked fetish until that became all we ever did and I got bored out of my mind and also realized he was not a good partner in any way and left him and his dildo. I never looked back. never bought a blue dildo again neither.

I think it goes back to highschool when hssh set a bad precedent wherein I would regularly blow him on the beach while he dated everyone but me and never returned the favor.

The culmination and apex of this messiness being the whole sister-wife fiasco of epic proportions. What in the ever loving fuck was I thinking?

Chalk that up to rock-bottom low self esteem. Which he knew about and preyed on quite happily.

I know now that I am enough to make someone happy, I was just brainwashed into thinking otherwise. But again, it’s this whole theme wherein I make these massive sacrifices and compromises for someone, who in the end, I never really knew or loved and who never loved me. He saw me at my worst and exploited my insecurities and weaknesses.

That’s not how this works.

I put up with the lack of love, the lack of sex and when we did have it that weird thing he did which was the only way he could cum. Not a turn on, perhaps why I stopped bothering him for sex eventually.

I have survived guys who make girl noises, tossed so many salads that I think I have joined the ranks of Manda Bear when she said “I have done more butt stuff to guys than guys have done butt stuff to me”, jackrabbits and jackhammers, and he who came so fast yet had no excuse because he actually had a live in girlfriend and was indeed getting laid regularly (what the hell was that about?)

And he who shall not be named who opened my eyes to the world of cuckhold fetishism. Wherein the man in the relationship wants to watch his woman get fucked by other men and partakes in sloppy seconds. We never met in real life, but for 2 years I wrapped my head around it, indulged in writing to the point where I wrote a fucking book about it.

70 000 words for a catfish.

Unbelievable.

I have crossed oceans for men who wouldn’t step over a puddle for me.

But I digress.

600 words in and I finally digress.

My point is HOLY SHIT, LOOK AT THE THINGS I HAVE DONE FOR THE WRONG MEN.

With a sidenote that I was always enough. More than they could handle probably.

I cannot begin to imagine my potential to love and care for someone worthy.

I am still stubbornly holding onto the idea of no happily ever afters. No more fairytales. But no one really knows what happens after ‘the end’.

Did you know that when John Hughes wrote Pretty in Pink, the original script had Andie getting together with Ducky at the end? Molly Ringwald threw a fit and he changed it so she got together with the popular guy instead. I get it, he did have that smirk, but he also threw her under the bus at the first sign of trouble. Sounds way too familiar.

I have been on and under enough buses in my day.

Over it.

 

 

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1 Comment

  • Reply Matthew Eayre September 12, 2017 at 10:45 am

    somewhere in this mess around me, there is a life, a real life with a beating heart and everything that is needed is provided.
    💚

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