Everything was going well until we ended up in bed. He was great in every other way. Then he went down on me. Two minutes. Not even that. Before I could feel anything he was back up, dick hanging over my face, and I was just lying there really disappointed. I have been sitting with it ever since wondering what I am supposed to do now.
I don’t think I have much choice left except to start throwing money at the problem. Three men in two months. All three a let down. I am going to have to pay for a proper seeing to. Worse than that, I have to convince the one man I know can actually do it to take my money. It is going to cost an ungodly amount. He will be sorted for life off the back of me. And worse still, I will be sharing him with God knows who. He’s literally open to anyone. He’s so anti relationship it stings. I don’t want to get on my knees and beg any man. If I don’t, my head is going to go. I have really screwed this up.
Do not start with you were warned. Save it. Sex has always been disappointing. The last bloke made no difference to that. My mental health would still be a problem either way. There are some things you have to do at least once and he was one of them. Now I know he exists I cannot put it back in the box.
I will take any offer he makes. A monthly subscription. Fine. Laugh. I will do it. But I want cock this time. He is not mugging me off with just half if I am paying stupid money and swallowing my pride. If I am begging I want the full experience. And I want to know more about him, I want everything, I know nothing. God. I’ve not text him in ages, I’m going to look a right melt.
What have I done to my life?
That is the short version. The long version is that I spent two weeks letting myself believe an ordinary relationship might finally work. He was kind. He texted back. He did not flinch when I talked too much. He sat through my rants and didn’t look bored. I started thinking maybe the hunger I have been carrying around since the moody prick was just a phase. Maybe I could be a normal woman with a normal boyfriend who lasted a normal amount of time and that would be enough.
It was not enough.
Two minutes. I counted because I always count now. I cannot help it. He thought he had done well. He came up smiling. I had to arrange my face into something that would not wreck the evening. I did the thing women do. I said it was good. I let him finish. I lay there afterwards staring at the ceiling while he fell asleep like the job was done. In the morning I made tea and I knew I was going to end it. Not because he is a bad person. Because my body had already met the other standard and it would not pretend any more.
I told him it was not working. I didn’t tell him why. What would I even say. Sorry, you’re just shit. So I used the usual language. Timing. Headspace. Not you, me. All of it true enough. None of it the real sentence.
Then I sat in my flat and the quiet got loud.
Three men in two months. The Tinder one who finished in his pants. It’s not funny when you know what the other end of the scale looks like. It is just sad and expensive.
I’m not going text him, I don’t really want to. I just annoy him being around around him. I’m going to have to apologise and god knows what rules he’s going to have this time. He sure as shit isn’t going to let me write about it. If I make that text, I’m going to be in his pocket, and that’s a shitty place for a feminist to be. On a man’s leash.
I have secrets of his I could maybe use. That person I know he wants, the friend of a someone, and wanted for a very long time, I could use her name. But that’s a shitty thing to do, that makes me a monster. I can’t do that. It’s just unfair. Millions of incels out there and I want the one that comes in two moods, grumpy and angry.
Life can do one.
A subscription. Jesus Christ.
You know what’s more annoying? I’m going to be the only dumb arse that’s paying for it.
Well no, absolutely not.
I’m not texting him.