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| Pink is for subbing, green is for domming. A looooot of pink on that romance bar! From Enough to Make You Blush: Exploring Erotic Humiliation by Princess Kali |
“It just feels empty without the rest of the fantasy.” I said to The Song Sender, before we even got out of bed.
I felt stuck on whatever had shifted him from liking me to
feeling obligated, from sweetness creeping in to not even trying to put the
phone down when we were hanging out post-sex. (Yes, I did play Animal Crossing
for 20 mins, but that was an anti-anxiety strategy. Maybe his constant checking
was too.)
This was maybe the most talking I’ve ever done with
him, just kept yammering while we put our clothes on, while I got some ice
coffee to keep me up for the longish drive to his girlfriend’s house. (Dear
Universe, I’ll take guys I don’t have to drive around next, please! I guess that’s
up to me.)
Speaking of the girlfriend, I didn’t ask him the thing
I’ve always wanted to ask, in 2011 and in 2022—why do other women get to be
people to him, and I don’t? What is it about me? If he’s been with this woman
for five years, he can’t have been distant and cruel and thoughtless the whole
time, can he? So why is this kind of opportunist assholism reserved just for
me? It probably isn’t.
(It’s not a great habit to wonder what secret to worth
other women have that I can’t fathom, but it’s a very old habit, and he
triggers it the worst. On good days, which is most days, I can be all neutral
and just-a-bad-match about it, but inferiority to the other ladies is, I guess,
a sore spot I can’t always help poking at.)
I kept yammering as he meekly navigated the way. I
will very much miss his not-backseat-driving! Seriously one of the hottest
things about him.
He wasn’t going to navigate my life, but I asked him
to:
“Tell me what to do. I don’t want to let you go again.”
“You don’t have to let me go, just…”
“Well I have to let go of SOMETHING.”
What I was thinking was: Twice. Twice is how many
times he gets to break my heart. No more.”
For such a toxic combination of people, it was a
really sweet breakup. Re-break-up? Just a break-off since it was new? But also
not? I pulled over twice during the drive, once to cry and say: “I tried so
hard. Then and now. I just couldn’t get it right.”
“It’s not your fault.” He said, “None of this is your
fault. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I know.”
(I should say, there were other, bigger, heavier
things going on in his life besides the easier-sexting-girl. Or, he was doing a
scam an I just wasn’t doing the offer-to-help-with-money part of the script. I
do listen to too many scam podcasts.)
The second time I pulled over, it was to say a proper
goodbye—I didn’t want to rush it with traffic coming up behind me on his girlfriend’s
narrow street. I wanted a real moment, and he was kind enough to comply.
I gave him as big of a hug as the car would allow. His
body still felt warm from afterglow and affection. He still had that smell I can’t
resist.
“Well, sweets, I think I have to get over you again.”
We kissed. He held my hand. He held my hand over his
heart and kissed it, which was either a dear sweet gesture or a thing a
psychopath had learned from movies. Probably the former?
I got to do that thing where I told him he’ll always
be in my heart, to warn him that it’s crowded in there.
When we got to his girlfriend’s, the seatbelt chime
went off well before I stopped the car.
“You can’t wait to get away from me,” I laughed. This
bird had flown.
The best case scenario after I hit on him at the
movies would have been kismet, romance, and gothy playlists forever, but a lovely
goodbye is something.
When I got home, before I got out of the car, I did
the ritual: Delete the text thread. Block the number. Delete the contact. Block
on Instagram. I was sad, but it was a beautiful sad. In that kind and very talky
goodbye, he’d let me love him just a little. He let us out of the cage of our gorgeous
violent fantasies and jangled, impatient minds, and he let us do part humanely.
Not the miracle I wanted, but a miracle nonetheless.
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