In less than a week, you were telling me that you were in love. That you loved me. In the first two weeks, you were making plans and telling me all about how you wanted me in your life. I listened with more than a little skepticism. I didn’t believe you. As it turns out, I was right. You do not know what love IS and you certainly had no love of me; You had no more intention of any of that blather about a future, your friends, your mother, or any of it being more than romantic babble; soap bubbles, floating high and with no more substance to them than hot air blown into soap could ever lend.
I conclude this is your pattern for getting laid. Pretty words and lots of them, but pray — no more than this! Evenings of sex and pseudo-closeness because, let’s face it, you want that, you just don’t want to have to actually commit anything to have them.
I laugh, albeit angrily, to think that you dared tell me I was being too demanding in the face of all your pretty words and lies. As if setting the word ‘love’ in front of me was not a demand? As if those greedy, grabby hands were not demanding? As if there was nothing of you that in any way was demanding of me; making very explicit statements designed to leverage emotion with that demand and have it seem reasonable?
What an idiot I am, eh? How you must have laughed at me. So eager, so easily convinced. Pity that I actually thought those words had substance, eh? Or in any way expected that someone speaking of love and interest in a future might actually have intentions of being more than intermittently present, might manage more than acting like I should not bother you unless you felt like fucking.
I get it now, of course. No ounce of compromise in you, no interest in the reasonableness of someone who has interest in you and enjoys your company actually wanting to spend more time with you, might want to go outside the house and actually do things with you. No, silly me, that’s being too demanding. I mean, everything else you have going is just more important and why couldn’t I just deal with that reality, right?
Yeah. I get it. I get that you think a relationship should be sex when you want it; mock play at actual intimacy when you haven’t got an outing with friends or an evening having “real enjoyment” elsewhere planned.
To think: I actually put aside my own reason and logic and made a conscious choice to believe you. Guess I’m dumber than I like to think when it comes to it, eh? Took a chance and made myself emotionally available to you as you asked… and resolutely refused to think maybe you just like tap dancing on hearts.
Oooh, it was too soon to ask you for more time. Right. But not too soon for all those overdone, over blown words about love and all the patter about a relationship. Is that it?
I think about how much effort it took me to believe in you and it makes me sick. Literally sick to my stomach. I think about you sitting there, ogling my damned breasts on Tuesday and only barely paying attention to what I was saying until it became obvious the breasts were being removed from your ability to touch. Ugh. And even then, you had the nerve to tell me you wished I would stop being so logical. Why? So you could manipulate my emotions again? Maybe eek out another week or two of sex on demand until there was nothing left that could possibly be believed?
I’m too demanding. Holy fucking hell. You don’t even think about the demands you set, do you? Of course not. They’re not demands, let alone unreasonable ones, when you’re the one making them, right? Silly me. I should have guessed it.
When you said you didn’t have any female friends, it lit up my brain; A true epiphany. Of course you don’t have female friends. That would require viewing women as more than tits, asses, and a convenient place to stuff your dick.
Of course you think a circle of males is ‘better’ and more important than any woman could ever be. Why wouldn’t you? The only time you bother with women is when you want to get laid.
I remember the way you tried to make me feel badly because my friends are back on the east coast, or living in other countries. How you tried to make it out as if, because I’ve actually traveled or have only been here long enough to get my feet under me, I was somehow flawed.
I remember how you tried to tell me that it was “all me” — somehow, my “communication skills” were off, because, obviously, you’ve been very clear about everything. As if repeated last-minute cancellations and utterly ignoring my requests and only coming around to bed me were just delusions, hallucinations.
I remember you telling me that I was the first person you’d ever been with who actually seemed to care about you. I remember you telling me that all the other women you’d ever dated were either clingy to the point of smothering you or insecure to the point of psychosis.
The truth was staring me right in the face all along and I just didn’t want to see it. But oh, I see it. I now see it very clearly… and you’re right… I’m not clingy and I’m not insecure and I do have boundaries beyond which no one, especially not an immature, selfish boy like you will be permitted to push me.
I gave you more access and willingness than you deserved. I see that now. And you definitely accepted it without qualm. Not a peep or worry until it became apparent that you might actually have to bone up a little more than your “down time”, or actually do more than play at having a relationship.
And, as utterly expected, dead silence since it became obvious you weren’t getting laid here anymore. But of course, that is to be expected, after all, we’ve already established why you just don’t believe in female friends, haven’t we?
I think about the gall of you saying to me, “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.” Oh sure, Dan, I’ll be right back next time I want to feel objectified and unneeded. Tell you what, why don’t you hold your fucking breath for that, ok?
I think my friends were all too right about you. Actually, I know they were, now that I’ve had time to think about it. My closest friend, a fellow I’ve known and shared a great deal with over the last twenty three years put it to me this way, “Bonnie, it’s like handing a 14 yr old the keys to a Ferrari. Sure he wants a ride, but he hasn’t a fucking clue how to drive and he has no appreciation for a well-built, fine-tuned, performance ride anyway. It’s an utter waste on all counts.”
You do not deserve what I wanted to give you. You never managed enough to have more than a glimpse of it because you rejected it every time I thought to try and show it to you. Many and most sincere thanks to you for making this so very obvious and clear to me; because of it, you never will.
I don’t want or need a reply, this isn’t about opening a discussion, it is about ending all discussion and making it very, very clear that, of all the things I might ever want in future, you’re no longer on the list. There will be no further interaction from me and if you’re wise, you’ll avoid making the mistake of trying to in any manner persue this topic with me at any time, in any venue.
You and I are beyond done.