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In Hindsight

August 12, 2010


Pic @ Slutever

As told by someone else:

This is a story I would not tell you when I was your girlfriend because I knew it would mean the end of us. We’d been together for a long time, then you started liking that other person, the one whose name I can’t say out loud. At first I thought I could change myself—to learn to possess whatever special thing it was this other person possessed—but after a while of you not noticing I just gave up.

When we met you said you didn’t know anything about sex. I said that was OK with me. I said it was a good thing I was such a slut in high school, because now I had a vast knowledge of the human anatomy and how to make orgasms happen in both boys and girls, and that I would share it with you. This made you cringe a little, but you seemed optimistic. I taught you how to make a girl cum by writing the alphabet on her clit with your tongue (something I picked up from Cruel Intentions), and how to masturbate using a shower head. You taught me that I enjoyed erotic asphyxiation, and to shut up because I didn’t actually know as much about sex as I thought I did.

After you met that other person, you would go away for weeks at a time. It was because of your job, I know, but I still felt lonely. I started sleeping with a guy who liked to watch me eat during sex. He was about forty. Coincidentally, our affair began around the same time I developed an insatiable oral fixation. I would eat constantly, would chew gum, smoke cigarettes (I normally don’t, as you know), and bite my nails even more than usual. I would eat and smoke all day and at night I would go to XXX’s house to fuck, and while we fucked I would eat—cakes, ice-cream, candy bars, stuff like that. I once consumed an entire chocolate cake in a night. I gained ten pounds and felt like a fat pig. You didn’t care. Whenever I would complain about my body you would say, I like the way you look. Actually, I think you look better than before, even though I knew it wasn’t true. Around this time a close friend said to me, You know you have a problem with food when you can’t stop shoving your face long enough to get fucked. That made me laugh but then later I cried about it.

Someone somewhere once told me: if you don’t have sex at least three times a week you can consider your relationship over. But I remember points when we didn’t have sex for months at a time, but it felt OK. We did other things that felt just as, if not more, intimate. Like in the mornings when I’d get up to take a shower, and you’d lie in bed and make yourself cum. Then when I came back I’d clean you up with the damp kitchen towel I’d brought with me just for that very reason. That was nice. Kitchen towels always remind me of you.

Once, right before we broke up, you said, Sometimes I feel as though my thoughts, feelings, opinions and words are not my own, but rather a combination of those of the people around me. You said, Isn’t that depressing? I say No, that’s everybody. I remember thinking you sounded really pretentious.

About a month after we broke up I sent you a letter that said (in red, capital letters for dramatic effect): YOU ARE THE WORST THING THAT EVER HAPPENED TO ME. In hindsight I guess that wasn’t exactly the truth.



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