I've spent a year being married men's emotional play things. Being the girl who laughs at their jokes and wonders at their accomplishments and compliments their style and touches their arms. The one who makes them feel like motherfucking desirable men. Working out and turning my wrists and tugging the corners of black-laced lingerie so that they can feel the femininity of my presence. Feel it and the accompanying, distantly familiar lust of their younger years. It's a great set up for them; they get all the flattery and energy of having some fresh-faced girl gaze longingly at them and give them ceaseless attention. And then they can go home and fuck their wives and play out whatever romantic fantasy could have been between us without me. And after months of investment, where do I end up? Alone. Empty. Disappointed. Pissed off. Exhausted. Two days of chemistry. Three days of silence. Five months of love. Six months of isolation. I can't trust myself. I fall in love too easily; I get on my knees too readily. (Not physically, of course; just emotionally. Trust me, it doesn't hurt any less.) It's humiliating and frustrating and primarily a waste of time. I have too many hours in a day to daydream and pen drama-ridden blog posts, I know. I should be falling in love with men my own age, right? Single ones who I can actually build a future with. But you see I don't know many guys like that and the ones I do are not attracted to me. I am second-rate; a broken little screw up whose only hope lies in these emotional affairs I seem able to conjure. But a real relationship? A real, requited connection? I don't know anything about that. I just know manipulation and how it feels to ride the edge of something forbidden. I'll bite the apple for a minute and taste bile for hours and do it again tomorrow.
It never begins intentionally No, see, circumstance just put us in each other's corners. A lot. And we just happen to have the same sense of humor. Like, really. And you're smart and I can talk economics and while you fix computers, I'm drawing flowers and somehow this oil-and-water thing is turning our "friendship" pretty fucking hot. Too hot to stay away from. God, you're irresistible. That is until suddenly you start talking about your wife and kids. And despite what others are whispering and the way your wife is suddenly pulling our her claws, you insist you don't want anything more. And you touch my lower back and hug me while I'm crying and follow me into my bedroom but no...we're just friends. Do you have any idea how fucking confusing and painful this is for me?! You're 40 and I'm 22! Don't let me do this! Don't respond. Cut me off. Give me the cold shoulder for fuck's sake.
Help me because I can't help myself.
