I fall for boys who are nice to me. That’s my problem; I have a soft spot for compliments and affection, so when you took my hand and gave me your jacket when I was shivering, I melted. You called me pretty, funny and smart, a trifecta I hadn’t been called in a long while, and even though I had known you for only a few hours, I fell for you because I believed you.
Of course I fell for you as you kissed me gently for hours in my bed, laughing with me when you propped your elbow on my hair, then pulling me in close by the waist, kissing my forehead and apologizing softly into my neck. Of course I fell for you as you cupped my face and called me beautiful and dragged your thumb across my cheek and kissed me until the sun rose. Of course I fell for you as you kept your hands firmly above my clothes, not even attempting anything else but handling me just roughly enough to make me wonder what else you could do.
Now I don’t have to wonder. Now I watch you pull your shoes on in the dark of your room as I reach for my shirt, and now I’m wondering what happened to the boy who seemed so interested in knowing me.
You started to act so distant, surely an attempt to keep me at arms length, to let me know without saying that I was only a hookup, I was only someone you saw when you felt like, someone whose feelings really didn’t matter to you at all. I let myself run back to you over and over again even though you gave me perfectly good reasons each and every time to drop you.
I should have known you wanted nothing else but my body. You never let me talk after sex—the time when you and I were most vulnerable, the time where we could have gotten closer, the moments that could have created an actual bond. You did that on purpose. Each moment spent with you was a moment our lips were touching. There was no moment of blissful silence right after, no moment with a collective sigh of satisfaction. There were no moments after that where you’d take me in your arms and let me trace patterns with my finger on your chest while you slowly and deliberately combed through my hair. There was no pillow talk, no deep conversations about our childhoods, what made us the way we were, what scared you, what I regretted the most.
Instead, we were always moving, always kissing, you were always pulling me closer, your hands constantly searching. I thought it was romantic in the moment, but now, looking back on it, I realize how demoralizing it was, how small it made me feel, how far it was from what I wanted.
Yet I always went back. I always found myself climbing out of your car and into your bed, always looking for a way to fill the empty space within me, always justifying every shitty thing you did to make myself feel better.
You gave me a hope I hadn’t had in a long time. I gave you a part of me that I wish I could get back. I gave you myself over and over again, and you just didn’t care. You still don’t care, and I know I can’t ask to you to either. I have no right. But you also had no right to treat me the way you did. I may not have meant much to you, but I am still a person, a person who, despite my flaws, you liked enough to walk me home that chilly October night, hoping to be invited up.
I had sex with you to feel something. I wanted to be held, to be loved, to be reassured that there was someone out there who found me desirable when it was the last thing I felt myself. I wanted to feel your body heavy on top of mine, wanted you to pull my hair as you put your lips to my neck, wanted to feel your hands on my waist when you pulled me on top of you. I relished in the moments when your breath was on my neck and my hands were tangled in your hair; you didn’t know it at the time, but in this way, I used you too. I used you to feel.
You had sex with me because you wanted to have sex with someone. You kept your distance, making sure you were just aloof enough to ensure that I wouldn’t develop feelings or a sense of attachment to you. Of course, the mere definition of a human being is to crave that which you cannot have, and so, naturally, I wanted what you couldn’t give me. I wanted intimacy, yes, but more importantly, I wanted emotional intimacy, something with which you either would not or could not supply me.
Now I’m watching you pull on your pants as the moonlight streaming through the window illuminates only half your face and I’m wondering what the fuck happened to the boy who wrapped his shirt around me and held my hand as we drunkenly stumbled across campus, giggling the entire time. I wonder what happened and I feel heaviness in my chest and I can’t explain why I feel like this. Why I care so much. Why I let you walk all over me for the better part of this last year.
You really disappointed me. You made me feel like I wasn’t worth much when I know that I’m worth a lot more. I’m worth more than a boy who only wants me late on a Tuesday night. I will always be worth more than that.