He hates women, but he loves me for right now. Which is fine as we sit here in the sticky silence, naked but looking away. Eventually he will get dressed, and then he will leave, and I’ll be alone, which is a much easier state to be in than curled up with a man who hates women. Who hates his mother. Who hates his exgirlfriends. Who hates me. We don’t talk about it. I never bring it up. Although I hear the things he says, and I see the things he does, and I know it’s true. Perhaps I should have thought about it before I stripped down to my skivvies and dove head first into a bottle of booze and bed with him. I would have realized that, hey, maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe I should walk away from having sex with a man who has no love for women. Any of them, ever, no matter how beautiful or smart or loving.
Luckily for this guy, I like sex too much to say no just because of something as trivial as a generalized hatred to an entire sex. Which is how I got here in the first place: my love of fucking. Which is why I’m lying here now, my head heavy on his chest, and I can hear his heart beating. I know it doesn’t beat for me, and even in this moment of tired tenderness, it’s still hard to pretend. But I do it anyways. I pretend he cares. I pretend that he gives a fuck. I pretend that I have a chance of getting something more than just another piece of sex in my pocket. Because it feels good.
Sometimes it feels good to lie to myself, as I lie here with him, and that makes me wonder: what kind of lies is he succumbing to in this hazy post coital love scene? Is he prancing off into the future with me in his head? Or is he, like me, mired in the reality of the fact that this is the best that either of us can do. This is the closest to love that either of us will get this year, which is a shame because it’s such a shitty approximation of such a wonderful sensation. I close my eyes and wait for him to push me off him so he can leave into some other netherworld filled with other people and other women and other bottles of booze. I am not in that world, and maybe that’s for the best. But it sure as fuck doesn’t feel like the best, because I’m pretty sure that the best should consist of us loving each other instead of constantly and cringingly running away from each other every damn time.
But I don’t even know what that would look like, probably because he doesn’t know how to do it. How to love a woman. I certainly am not the one to show him how, and I wonder if anyone ever will.