When you’re suddenly grieving the loss of an ex boyfriend again that you broke up with a year ago it’s hard to write about anything else. It’s hard to write funny condescending articles about disappointing men when you feel like you are a downright disappointing woman. It’s hard to write any shareable journal entries with any flavor at all that aren’t just long and monotonous and plain depressing. This is where I am. Maybe because my body and mind are suddenly reliving what happened this time last year. But he’s all I can think about. I spend a moment crying over him every day. No matter how satisfied, fulfilled, happy my own individual life feels right now, there’s a gaping hole where he belongs that nothing has been able to fill.
It’s difficult when you lose someone that felt so perfect, whom you know felt the perfection too, because of your own hangups, realizing a year later that those hangups are gone and there’s no way for him to ever know. Realizing especially that you’re fucking killing it by continuing to try to tell him via email that he likely has filtered or sees and actively ignores. Knowing he only ignores because of how tempting and probably dangerous you seem whenever you see each other and the communication gets rolling again. Or because his girlfriend found out you were talking, requested to end it, and he’s the type of person to honor her and never look back no matter how much he wants it. It’s frustrating when you see each other even after he’s with someone, seriously, and it all comes back. It comes back for both of you, so strongly that he can’t deal with meeting up again. He continues the writing, asks that you stop telling him about a man you’re dating, then suddenly things get a little ambiguously intense and you’re convinced you’re about to get fucked. And he disappears. After I did the right thing and shut up we saw each other again. Unplanned this time. Even though he lives just three blocks east. He stays away from my bars and in all likelihood found a different Walgreens and grocery store. He could have paused at that crosswalk. He could have waited for the light. I would have never seen him. The distance between us would have grown. I may have been able to have sex with that last guy instead to thinking he was so incredibly stupid. But there wasn’t any holding back. He came after me. Stopped to talk. Asked me to email him with updates. ME. MORE EMAILS.
I was going to write two essays over the weekend. One was about a man I went out with several months ago who claimed to be a Dom and after I discussed what cumming on a woman’s face or in her mouth really meant he pretended that he withheld his cum all together. But somehow that led to recalling when my ex and I were fucking and he pulled out, his cum shooting up in a perfect arc and landing directly into my mouth. It was irrelevant to the story of my Fake Dom. But he’s so relevant right now I couldn’t avoid it. The other was about the fact that I am a Fuckgirl. The difference between the Fuckgirl and Fuckboy being that the Girl isn’t sexually incompetent, to the contrary actually sexually pretty awesome, but emotionally lacking. We present with the image of the fantasy woman, so desirable no man can resist. But in the end we come up short, never able to provide what our presence of femininity and power seem to imply. This so obviously relates back to him that I didn’t even bother starting. None of my other experiences with men, which were a lot, seemed to come close.
Really what has me so distraught over his absence is that I can’t just directly tell him that I may not actually be a Fuckgirl anymore. Or at least that I don’t want to be. That my inconsistency and fear have almost disappeared and are now only present as some sort of learned written behavior that is only there as habit. That I never trusted him because I never understood what trust felt like. But I stayed with him, wanted him, because I somehow knew he was trustworthy. I’ve been conditioned my entire life to not believe a word any man tells me. That as soon as I’m built up enough to feel confident and powerful I’ll be torn down and stripped of everything. It wasn’t his fault that I expected him to treat me the same way. And it’s not his fault that he doesn’t know that I understand now that he never did. It’s just so fucking tragic that I don’t have that goddam time machine to go back and do it all over again.
Having an ex that you’re not over colors everything you do. It affects new relationships you form with people. It infects your social behavior. I haven’t been able to go out with a man longer than a few dates because it becomes clear that he’s on my mind. I even bring him up. I’m often asked if I’m available or if I’m still attached. I’ve been accused directly of still being in love. It’s that fucking obvious. It feels pathetic. It feels weak. It feels downright desperate. My behavior with him is no less undignified. My reach outs just begging for something in return have started coming out so fast these days I only hope he actually did block me and doesn’t bother to check in. I’m likely reliving the trauma from last year. The huge mistake we made. Maybe the huge mistake that I made. I’m thinking that everything would have been fine if we had just waited. If I had controlled myself a little more. If I had just been fucking consistent. If I had known how much he really loved me and if I had understood that that was ok. I’m wondering how we would be now. And wishing that I just had another chance. Because I would do it so much differently. I would actually give back. I’d both give and receive. Which are two new things totally separate than existing just as that fun fantasy untouchable object that I’m used to being.
Losing important people is something we all have to deal with. Losing really special people that were so incredibly special that we thought would never leave is especially hard to understand. I can’t pretend to know exactly why he disappeared this final time. I can’t pretend to know if and when he’ll reappear. Never having a definitive answer maintains that question mark and is probably why I keep trying to provoke a response out of him. But the fact is that he’s not giving it. And eventually I’ll have to face the reality that he’s gone. As unfair as I think it is. As perfect as I thought we were. As hard as it is to understand that he could possibly match with anyone in a way that is better than how he matched with me - that he even admitted this - I have to find a way to let him go.
The best thing about finally writing for an audience is that I’ve been able to channel this into a form of entertainment and craft instead of just a way to obsess over men. Unfortunately I’ve been snared by something that I wasn’t expecting to come up again. In hopes that I can return to writing quality essays about sex, dating, and power, I am sharing this maybe as a way to cleanse myself of having to insert him into everything I post. I am currently lacking that power that I so often hold and write about with such confidence. Perhaps this roots in the essay Bitch Face, that there’s an underlying guilt I have yet to overcome. However more than remorse it feels like I am just feeling the grief that I never allowed myself to experience. And that takes a little time. We’ve all had shitty breakups. Holding onto them only makes it worse. Knowing the other person may be holding onto it too - a million times worse. I’ll be back on track soon. I’ll write about that cum withholding motherfucker in due time. I’m sure I’ll be able to talk about being a Fuckgirl in reference to all the other men who have left me for simple, unspectacular but nurturing women and flat out settled. But right now I’m dealing with the reality of having human emotions. And I might finally be thankful that I know what that feels like. I maybe can at least take some sort of solace in the fact that I am actually, despite all of my claims of cold heartedness and disconnect - a real fucking warm-blooded caring and emotional human woman. Imagine that. That I finally have for once understood and felt something that I thought I’d never experience or really even comprehend. So clearly, unmistakably, and without a doubt unconditionally: Love.