It’s good that someone else can reblog their own endings-to-love right now. I don’t really have a heart left to break over it.Save me.
I dated him for a year plus, felt like 12 plus. He liked to take me to hipster diners, where we’d share milkshakes, and he’d slip me pills as my mouth would reach the straw. I was drunk, thought it was love. Maybe it was all the sad songs he’d send me or how he’d keep his stretched out hand on my heart as we had sex.
A history:
2001, I almost got engaged to him. He loved all my “crazy queer sex worker” friends but was wildly uncomfortable with me actually doing any in-person sex work. Then he got jealous of my webcam audience. That he wasn’t nearly so jealous of the other man I was actually falling in love with offline as we planned our thank-god collapsed wedding? It’s easier to blame the hooking — even the thirty-seconds-at-a-time camwhoring variety — than the fissures in the relationship.
2005, and it was a year yet before it all came crashing down with this one. He, too, loved my “crazy” friends but teased me for my activism and treated any instance of on-the-job frustration as evidence of why I ought to quit. The final straw was when he hired a sex worker up to the apartment we shared, when sex in our bed with other people was specifically off-limits. Incall is on most girls’ menus. God.
2006, the only person to date I dated to tell me I was “too smart” to do sex work. And yet, it still took me two months to realise how bad he was for me.
2008, and I learn that no matter how I try to make sense to him, of why it hurts me, his desire for me to be always-on and on-his-schedule, to keep the heat of our relationship alive on my own (and this is the crucial bit) without equal consideration on his part, is tantamount to my being his “girlfriend experience.” I want permission to be boring with a lover. I want license to relax and not have to be perfect. I want to be able to self-reflect and co-reflect on our relationship and not be told that it’s “work.” Yes, it is work. So is maintaining connection and passion over time. That whiz-bang of a new lover, a new crush, when everything just happens, if the chemistry is there at all, and seems carefree, seems so effortless? Even with clients, we knew this was an exchange worth honoring, that there’s something valuable there and it needs to be nourished with something.
And if not with love, than with money.
- jgh: make it a contest: win a date with melissa gira
- mgg: yeah, but you have to prove your net-worth to enter.
2 a.m.: I momentarily panic, having completely forgotten her name.
2:15 a.m.: Still can’t remember, but at this point it probably doesn’t matter. She’s pretty wasted, and the slobbery blowjob reinforces this fact. I can’t tell if she gives bad head because she’s 22, or because she’s blacked out.
2:45 a.m.: Realizing this girl will never be able to get me off with her mouth, I whip out a condom from my blazer pocket. I’m promptly shut down, and thereby resort to jerking myself off into her mouth.
…
7:00 p.m.: Back to her apartment, where things get hot and heavy early. Unlike last night’s encounter, this woman is a fair bit older, but her experience shows and I enjoy every second. I don’t normally like sober sex (or have it at all, for that matter), but with her, it’s incredible. She just knows what she’s doing, and I don’t get that with the girls I typically sleep with.