And So I Write

The thing about not having sex with your boyfriend is the entire world seems to know about it. And no, it’s not because I told everyone. I only told you lot. I don’t know how they know, everyone else. But they know. They must do. There can’t be any other reason as to why every fuckboy in my past, and a few I haven’t even met yet, decided to enter my inbox during my eight-month stint of abstinence.

All I wanted was Bear’s dick, but all I got was an inbox of everyone else’s dick. The universe is fucking laughing at me.

I’m not sure who it started with. I think it might have been The Lapdog. I’m assuming he’s going through some kind of pre-wedding boredom phase because I’ve had messages from him on Friday and Saturday nights a lot recently. He’s almost always drunk, and he almost always wants to talk about our past.

At any other time, I’d have disregarded those messages entirely. I probably wouldn’t even have read them. I’d have flicked onto the messenger thread to get rid of the notification, but I wouldn’t have read the contents. It’s almost always the same old stuff anyway.

After eight months of abstinence, though … different story. I’m not getting attention from my actual lover, and it’s not like I’m actually doing anything wrong by texting this “old friend” back. Because as much as he’s an ex-almost-boyfriend and an ex-lover, The Lapdog will always be an old friend.

So, we start talking. This n’ that. Remembering things. Chatting about those nights we got drunk and did things we probably should regret but don’t. Getting nostalgic. It starts with memories of family weddings and birthday parties, mocking the drunken aunt for flirting with a lad twenty years her junior even though her husband was standing right next to her. But it soon moves on to something else. Another level of conversation. Like what happened after that family wedding or birthday party, and all through the night, and then again the morning after.

Before I know it, a friendly and nostalgic conversation turns into something that shouldn’t be happening. We’re crossing lines, saying too much, going too far. And there’s no real way of backtracking from that … I’ve already done it. The damage has been done. I’ve crossed the line into inappropriate … but I haven’t gone all the way. Thankfully, it’s late at night and I can just fall asleep. That’s what I tell him the morning after when he texts again and asks why I didn’t respond.

But something else happens during those conversations: a seed gets planted. A seed that starts to grow into fast-growing ivy with long, trailing vines, each of them with our sexual memories twisted around it. It grows and grows and grows. One memory turns into two, then three, then five, ten, fifty, one hundred. My mind and body is a literal mess of memories and lust, and this boy I haven’t thought of in that way [seriously] for a number of years suddenly becomes all I can think of … in that way.

(Can’t you tell from this post and this one??)

At any other time, I would fuck those old memories out of me, making new ones in the process. I’d dress in my hottest lingerie, wear my highest come-fuck-me heels, pout in my most-treasured red YSL lipstick and give my actual lover a night he wouldn’t forget in a while. He’d throw me around and slap my ass and tug on my hair and do all the things I really like and that would act as weed killer, dissolving those ivy vines of ex-lover memories.

But my actual lover isn’t down for that. That’s how come my textual conversation with The Lapdog got as far as it did and why those memories were left to flourish with reckless abandon.

There have been other boys in my inbox too, but I think The Lapdog is (surprisingly) the most dangerous one of them all. We’ve been sleeping together for over a decade, on and off, and it’s never disappointing. Ever. Quite the opposite. If I were to flick through my little black book of fucks, he’d be the one that held the title of most reliable. And most underrated. And probably most fun. And it never changed. Not after two years had passed, or three, or five, or ten. It’s always good. Great. Amazing.

Oh, and consistent.

I want to be consistently fucked more than anything else in the world. It doesn’t need to be mind-blowing or every day. We haven’t gotta try and fit in thirty different positions in ten minutes. It doesn’t even need to last for long. I just need it to be consistent. I need to know when my next fix is coming. Eight hours? Days? Weeks? *whispers* Months?

And so, because my patience is about as thin as it can get, I write. Because I’m struggling with the situation, I write. I walk away from frustration-fuelled almost-arguments and sit at my laptop and write. I write all the memories I remember to stop my fingers from texting back … or texting first. I write about things that never happened, that I wish had happened. I write alternate endings and stories with no beginnings, chapter after chapter of words and sentences that don’t even make sense. I write letters to people who’ll never get the opportunity to read them. I write fuck scenes based on real nights I’d planned that ended up ruined, wearing outfits that weren’t appreciated in real life, trying things I really want to try but can’t because you’ve gotta be with a willing party for that kind of playtime. And I do it all to keep myself busy, to give my hands something to do when masturbating non-stop isn’t appropriate, and to give my mind something to think about that isn’t fucking one of my ex-lovers. Or all of them.

The worst thing is, I don’t even want my ex-lovers.

I want my current lover, so fucking much.

And so I write.

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