I came home the other night, and my roommate was hanging out with a guy that I had one night stand with seven years ago. It was weird.
Mostly it was weird because I’ve entered a phase where I lightweight act like none of that shit ever happened, and I’m just a respectable girl doing respectable things, and I’m nice, and people like me. It’s a ruse, but it feels like it’s working, so I’m just going to roll with it.
A trip down memory lane was not what the doctor ordered, but it wasn’t the worst thing in the world. He was nice, and we had a nice conversation as I loitered in my kitchen in my pjs and no make up. It was fine, because, no, I wasn’t trying to impress, although, yes, I am a bit squeamish about people seeing me in my “inside clothes.” But that’s okay. That guy’s seen me naked before, so there was no point in pretending he hadn’t. Also he was there for my roommate, and as a passing blip on their evening’s radar, it’s not really my place to waft through the kitchen in lingerie especially when it’s cold as fuck.
So I sat in my room and examined my memory of fucking him, which was murky at best and drenched in alcohol, as usual. It was lackluster but not worthy of a scathing review. I have a feeling that perhaps I was the one who had been kind of shitty, but in lieu of my newfound self image as a “respectable girl,” I’m going to keep those details to myself so that my dignity can remain intact until at least the end of this post.
What was most harrowing about having a former one night stand in my kitchen seven years later was the realization that: he still exists. And look at him, hanging out with my roommate – he’s still trying to get it! Seven years later.
It was a strange realization for me, mostly because I assumed that after I was done with a man he ceased to exist. I thought they evanesced into the ether, phantom dicks on which I used to ride but that would never pester me with the need to be acknowledged or surprise me with the fact that they’re still people with emotions. Weird.
I kinda figured that after I fucked someone, their existence was relegated to social media and fleeting glimpses at random parties. It’s hard for me to fathom that if I don’t care about someone anymore that someone else might care about them. Or want them. Or want to fuck them. If I can’t see them anymore, are they even real?
I know, I know. This sounds kind of sadistic, doesn’t it? And selfish. But I must admit, I didn’t always think like this. Men taught me that I didn’t exist if he didn’t want me. I have felt worthless enough to know that treating people like they’re worthless is an effective way to maintain the emotional distance that is necessary in order to maintain this kind of lifestyle.
I’m not really sure how these people feel about me, but, frankly, I don’t care. I’m a respectable girl, now, and I don’t do those kinds of things anymore.