I’m starting to lose hope for love… For me. My guts hurt. I can pretend to be cool, and I can appear to be tough but I ain’t made of stone.
I’m still wearing the same dress I wore last night when I met him. It’s been months since he approached me on that rainy night in Washington DC, and he’d finally made it out west to see me. As I waited at a bar, right off the beach in Santa Monica, in nervous anticipation, a great sadness came over me like a dark, cold cloud. It’s the 4th of July and in a few minutes he will be here, I thought, and all of our flirting, all of our sassy text messages and in-depth phone conversations have culminated to this one moment. The time had finally come, and I was sad.
This morning as I left our hotel room, a bit hung over from too many vodka shots and a bit sore from rough, tough sex, I realized why I’m sad. What will come of this evening spent together? What will come of our endless close-down-the-restaurant dinner, long walk on the beach, playing like kids in the sand, kissing under the stars, and all-night love making? Absolutely nothing. Andrew has proven to be a wonderful distraction these past few months. A fantasy, man, oh so far away. Perfection just out of my reach. I was free to fantasize about him. Free to build him up to some unattainable level of manliness that would be impossible for anyone to achieve, and I could do it because he wasn’t real. Until now. This feeling is as real as the heat from the pavement under my tired, flip-flopped feet.
The heavy reality sinks in deeper with each block. It was kind of him to choose a hotel so close to my office though; I don’t want to go back to work as it would signal the close of this wild and magical chapter. And as I walk, right foot, then left, my guts tell me I’ll never see him again. Just as he has been my fantasy, my escape, my muse, and what I’ve always wished for… I have been the same for him. I now feel despair despite my wish coming true and I think it’s because, deep down, I know I’m out of wishes. I’ll never know how he feels about the night or if his guts hurt too. I only know what he’ll do: nothing.
After arriving to my office, I asked him via text if he wanted to grab some lunch and he said he was already on his way to San Diego to begin the second leg of his California vacation. A polite, concise validation of my fears. I was his vacation sex and he’ll go home and I’ll be real but I’ll still be far away. Far enough to cast to the side. Far enough to forget.
But I won’t forget. I won’t forget the way he’s made me feel these past three months. I won’t forget the things he’s taught me, the avenues of education he has shown me, and the stories he has shared with me. I won’t forget our talks as they have meant the world to me.
I just. I just. I’m just… sad. To live in the shadow of your own ignorance is lovely and grand and innocent and wonderful because when you turn on the light and look at the bigger picture, what really surrounds you are never as beautiful and lovely and wonderful as we’d assumed. They say the truth hurts and they say it for a damn good reason.
I suppose it’s time to wipe the slate clean of these “feelings” and no longer hold out for love. It’s time to hustle, again. It’s time to play the field, again. It’s back to the sugar daddies and the sexy assholes and the idiotic bar-goers and the constant flow of dates and the unavoidable game playing. Jesus it sounds so exhausting!
Maybe I can wait until tomorrow. Yeah, today I’m gonna eat a lot of chocolate and smoke a lot of pot and feel a bit melancholy. Today I just want to be a little girl and have a good cry about it and tomorrow I’ll go back to being tough and cool. I’m so good at all these games but I’ll tell ya, I’m a sore loser.
Sticky's 7th grade boyfriend dumped her for "moving too fast" and things really haven't changed for her since. She currently resides in Los Angeles and writes about the men she's had. You'll find her in the smoking section or wherever champagne is served (but it's easier to follow her on Twitter) @stickyisaslut
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