I went out with two guys I met on the street. Literally on the street. I had just graduated, I had a rule about not dating co-workers, and I was anti dating apps, so when one asked, I figured, how else am I expecting to meet someone? It was a weird thing to do. Twice. I went out with the second one twice.
I just can’t get myself to wear a bra to a date. Maybe it’s after-hours exhibitionism, maybe it’s the scarring, skin-sucking strapless bras that pair with nice tops, maybe it’s the open vibe of my boobs hanging freely underneath my shirt: maybe I just want a boy who accepts me as I am.
Yeah, I’ve cried during sex.
Dude’s like, why’s my face getting wet? (missionary) I’m like, I don’t know, subconscious EMOTIONS.
Guess I was disappointed with him.
So my boyfriend and I break up, and I start working out a lot to stay sane. And now I’m like, great, now I have abs, and there’s no one to look at them. Can I get a second opinion on if my perky spin butt is worth the chunky spin thighs?
I’m still in that self destructive phase where if someone offered me a chance to meet a stranger who would become the love of my life or a text from my ex stating that he wanted to see me, I’d choose the latter.
It’s starting to have been long enough since we broke up that if I died, it wouldn’t be immediately obvious to people to call you. I still can’t believe you don’t want to hang out anymore. I just want go home.
I didn’t have any warning. I still had soup in your freezer and eyeliner placed gently on the ground of your bathroom as I sprinted after you to brunch. I feel like I lost a home.
Drinks. Sitting. Our legs were touching slightly more than normal, which I guess means “we’re going to fuck” in this adult era
He almost moved across the country to take a job in California. We never discussed what would happen if he moved across the country. I don’t think we’re the type of couple who would do long distance well.
At first I thought it was dishonest that we never discussed it, that we could be broken up right now yet we continue going on as if that isn’t so. I thought it was dishonest at first, but then I remembered the randomness of faith and life and chance. Maybe moving or not moving and dating or not dating and meeting or not meeting aren’t any less random, anyway.
I split my hymen at 13 having phone sex with a lipgloss. Nobody knows that. I paused at the sight of the fresh, red blood, knowing what it represented, knowing what I lost. Embarrassed, I tried to go on talking, to not let on to what had happened, to how I’d changed, undesirably. I stared at the skinny long, tube: a L’Oréal in a brownish pink shade I didn’t like, with a thick, gold rib where the cap met the tube. It wasn’t the first time I’d used it.