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A night all alone again.
That won’t do.
I have no one to spend it with, no one to fill this void in my soul, to make me feel warm and loved.
Except for him.
It’s only ever been him.
It’s wrong. I know it. Maybe even he does too. And yet we still repeat this cycle over and over and over and over.
I’m a lesbian, but all I have is him, and no matter what I do to distract myself from him, no matter how I rationalise how I hold no real feelings for him, no matter how many times I cut him off…
I can’t say no to my loneliness.
I feel like shit after the fact, without exception.
Yet I keep doing it.
Sex, hugs, praise. He’s the only one that gives it to me.
Sate my loneliness, and I’ll love you forever. But I don’t love you. I’ve never loved you. I never will.
Just make me feel needed, and I’ll forgive you for not cutting me off despite knowing I don’t love you. Despite knowing I've only ever found women attractive.
I’ve even begged him to change his whole lifestyle and transition for me. A delusion formed out of desperation.
I’m sorry for wishing you’d do that for me.
I use him.
But I hate him too.
I beg him to make me hate him, I beg him to leave so I don’t have to make that move myself, but he’s not merciful.
So I hate him. I despise him. I detest him.
Sometimes I even wish I could kill him.
But I never will. And I’ll always slide back into claiming I love him, begging him for attention and sexual gratification.
So I call him.
He doesn’t answer.
I call him again.
He answers on the second ring.
“What?” He says.
I’m so delusional that I can’t tell what he thinks. Was that a ‘what’ of annoyance? You tell me. Even when he demeans me, it sounds like praise. So I had no way of telling.
My chest tightens from hearing his voice. I feel like crying. I’m blessed with my favourite person’s attention, and I’m regretting it. But do I stop? Of course not.
I reply, stumbling over every word, just to say, ‘I love you.’
He mutters something but I don’t hear what, and then speaks to me. “Do you need me to come over?”
“P-please…”
I could have just said ‘I don’t,’ and everything would have been okay. I could have hung up.
But I just can’t.
Even though it’s past midnight, he says he’ll drive over.
I could have told him to stay home instead.
But I just can’t.
He says he loves me.
“I love you too,” I say.
Hook, line, sinker.
I fall for it. I fall for my own desperate delusions.
I drag myself out of bed and take a shower. Maybe a shower would help me refuse to open the door when he gets here.
But of course it doesn’t. I wait patiently at the door after drying off.
Pathetic little dog, waiting for a poisonous treat.
Are you even a lesbian at this point, or are you just pretending? Your mother was always right.
I hear a knock on the door.
I open it, without hesitation.
Why would I hesitate?
The instant I see him, I almost fall to my knees. An awful mixture of fear and arousal. I cling to him just to make sure I’m standing up right. He smells nice.
It’s more than I can take. I beg. “Carry me,” I mumble. “My life means nothing without your attention. I can’t do anything without you.”
What does he say to that? “Idiot.”
That word melts me.
I wonder if he ever feels guilty for feeding into my compulsory heterosexuality.
I doubt it.
I almost want to fall asleep in his arms.
This isn’t fair on either of us.
I’m kept up at night wondering if this sort of relationship is what I deserve though.
Women wouldn’t find me attractive. Their standards are too high. Men? They don’t have standards. And neither do I. So this must be what I deserve, right?
It must be.
It must… be.
He drops me onto the bed and takes off his clothes.
I say nothing. Not even as he gets on top of me.
“Your incessant whining really gets under my skin, ****,” he whispers. The way he says my name makes the tightening in my chest worsen.
“I’m sorry,” I whimper. “I’m sorry…”
Even though I shouldn’t like it, when he pulls down my pants and sticks it in me, I moan and beg for more.
It’s pleasurable.
I hate it.
I enjoy myself.
I hate it.
I ejaculate over my tummy.
I hate it.
And when its over, I feel like vomiting, a sign that I’ve become lucid again.
I’m so fucked up.
I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself.
No matter how many times I remind myself that this isn’t good for me, I repeat these mistakes.
I deserve it. I deserve feeling awful for it too.
No woman could ever love me when I’m too stupid to stop sleeping with men.
It’s like a drug addiction. It’s like smoking. It’s like cutting myself. No matter what I do, eventually I relapse.
I’ll keep doing this.
Over. And over. And over. And over. And over.
There’s no escape for me.
Not anymore.
He dresses himself when it’s over and asks me the same question he always does. “Same time tomorrow?”
This time, I told him, ‘no.’
What an obvious lie.