I was on the precipice of yet another bad decision when I realized, no, actually, that’s not who I want to be. As I sat there, feeling vicious, I remembered that I had promised myself a few years back that I was going to stop going out of my way to make decisions that were motivated solely by the intention to inflict pain on other people. Specifically, people I used to sleep with who made me feel jilted or rejected.
After a string of too many decisions that were fueled by the intention of hurting someone else, and then realizing that at the end of the day that guy probably didn’t care that I had fucked his friend and also I had really just submitted myself to some of the most heartless, least pleasurable sex ever just in the name cruelty: I had played myself. I really should only be making these types of decisions (i.e. sexual decisions) because I want to and because I like the other person and because it feels good. Sure, I know that somewhere deep down there’s some sort of insecurity that has to be tamped down on. But as I looked at the boy across from me, I had to wonder, “Am I doing this because I know we are going to have bomb ass sex? Or am I just pulling at the heart strings of social manipulation and hoping that this gets back to someone else so that I can have sexual fantasies about him crying in his bathroom alone?”
Luckily, I’m at the point in life where I realize that I don’t have to fuck anyone in order to inspire jealousy. All I need to do right now is laugh, put my hand on his thigh, and make him give me a ride home. Other people’s imaginations fill in the blanks that I have intentionally left blank. There’s no point in filling those mysteries in with a reality that doesn’t really please me, but they can wonder what really happened. They’ll never really know because it doesn’t really matter. And that’s fine.