It’s been years now. Which is probably why I’m having such a hard time letting go. Granted, not years of a relationship. That’s not what I’m talking about. You should know me by now. That’s not how I do things. There’s none of the usual trappings of monogamous romantic bliss in here. Instead, it’s the consistent fuckery of on again, off again instability. Of doubt. Of not knowing what the future holds, but coming over at 7pm to fuck on a Monday night just because. Then getting dressed again, in time to go out to the bars and rub the stench of another man on someone else on the dance floor. That’s all it was.
But, for years. It has been years of this. Years of fetid friendship, cuffed with the misconstrued concept that we could fuck and everything would work out okay. We were wrong every time. It had never been anything more or anything less than continuous casual sex. But now somehow, here I am. And I don’t know why I’m feeling like this. It doesn’t make sense, really. This little bit of sadness in which I am indulging today. This emotion. This feeling of something, of anything. I’m not supposed to feel anything other than lust for him, but – oh, well, you get the picture.
I have had boyfriends. They didn’t last long, really. Just the usual 3-13 month relationships that I paraded around town in the guise of bliss. They were always a sham, or, at least, I know this now. Which is funny, because after all these years – well, he’s still here. He’s the only one who has stuck around. He’s the only one with whom I can crawl into bed and cuddle while watching TV. We don’t call it dating, we just call it friendship, then we fuck, and then I leave. It’s a convenient arrangement. Not glamorous or pretty. It exists. That’s just it – it’s a relationship that exists, steadily, consistently, and fairly lovelessly, but I’m okay with that. And he is, too.
Although, not anymore, apparently. As we scoot away from each other in this wretched city. We haven’t spoken in months, and I’m not sure if it’s because we’re never going to speak again, or if it’s because this is just how it goes sometimes. I have been itching to call him. But not itching too much, otherwise I would have called him by now, but I have other things to distract me, and I also thought I’d wait for him to call first. Or we’d run into each other and smile. Or some new magical boyfriend would stumble onto my plate. But none of that has happened yet. Which is probably why I’m thinking of him, like some sort of internal alarm clock that sets of a buzzer of “It’s time to have good sex with someone you love” after two months of disappointing copulation.
But I don’t want to need this because the last time we did this it ended so badly. And I feel guilty about it, and what if the reason we haven’t spoken is because he never wants to speak to me again? But we were both too cool to say it out loud. It’s casual sex, so knock down, drag out arguments about the emotional fragility of our sexual arrangement would be too – too serious. Too relationship-y. Which is why, one day, we just stopped talking. For no reason, except that I got clingy. I wanted too much one day, and then, the next day – it was gone. That’s the fleeting nature of our relationship, isn’t it.
I look at his number in my phone with his picture beside it. How many times have I deleted this contact? Only to have it still here, steadfast, and is this the moment? My finger hovers, my mouth quivers. Do I reach out and touch him? Or should I keep bustling through the bars in search of some substitute to the casual numbness of my fake relationship with this boy I might love. I might not love him. I might just want to fuck him.
I know that the last time we had sex wasn’t the last time we’d ever fuck, but I don’t know if this week is the right time to rekindle our relationship. I put everything on pause yet again, my emotions most specifically, and I get back on Tinder to pass the time.