With every guy that I have “hung out with,” I have morphed myself to reflect and compliment the persona that he emitted so that he would like me, love me, need me. It has all ended in disaster (mostly in respect to how I have come out of these “relationships”–with less self-respect and more self-loathing), but I find myself committing these same relationship missteps time and time again.
With the Spanish guy, I found myself parroting his Madrid-specific accent. I used words that I would have never used in front of my Ecuadorian relatives. I also learned the ways he liked to fuck me, and found myself suggesting those positions, even when I mostly found them degrading and painful–and in no way pleasurable, which I had been lead to believe was the point of intercourse.
WIth the Argentine man that was old enough to be my dad (and almost old enough to be my grandpa), I let him fuck me quickly and selfishly, with the only end-point being self-pleasure. This totally shattered my dream of an Argentine man being as passionate as the tangoing men that you see in the “culturally enriching” videos that you are forced to watch even in college levels of Spanish language courses.
And then there was my “first,” the person whom I have arbitrarily and subconsciously decided to consider as the first real “love” of my life. In truth, he is nothing but a person who decided I was “good enough” to fuck when we were both drunk–I was drunk enough to fall asleep about five seconds into second base, but he, as the gentleman that he is, decided that was a lack of dissent enough to be a green light for full on sex–vaginal and anal. A stand up dude, really. I still find myself wishing he were in the bed with me at night (even though we are roughly 10 states away) so I could roll over and have someone to hold me and tell me that I would be okay.
I’m not ready for a relationship. I’m not sure that I will ever be ready for one. This cycle of self-destruction and sexual compromising that I have found myself in has now translated to the rest of my life. I find myself letting my bosses walk all over me. I let men–hot or not, by typical standards–be inappropriate with me. I sometimes wonder what it would take for me to find a man sexually undesirable. At the same time, I know it all comes back to me. I allow all of this to happen. I am a participant, and it doesn’t matter if I am an active or passive one. It’s fucked up, but I hate myself so much that I let it go on.