So, you’re paranoid, right? Trust me, you’ve subtly laid out all the classic signs. Like point blank telling me you’re paranoid. Because God forbid you should actually form feelings for me. That’s scary. I get it. It’s so terrifying that you stay over on average three times a week. Not to mention on said days we average sex twice.
Do you know that while you sleep, you literally have to be touching me at all times? Maybe not. You’re sleeping, after all. But it’s true. Even after you’re snoring in my ear and I attempt to move out of your cuddle death grip so that I can comfortably get some shut eye, you readjust so that you’re holding some part of me. I try not to take it personally — I really do. But I am a chick. I over analyze it. At least when you’re sleeping, you want me. Any part of me. Uninhibited, without need or explanation. And unfortunately I’ve come to seek solace in that.
It’s not easy for me to admit that. I am by no stretch of the imagination a “cuddler.” I don’t do the snuggly thing. Yeah, I’ve done it with boyfriends and guys of my past. But only to appease them until they can drift off and I can drift away from their clutch. I recently compared my feelings about cuddling to my feelings about candy: if I convince myself I don’t like it, I won’t enjoy it, and therefore won’t crave it. But lately, for whatever reason, I actually have come to enjoy it, and in turn have come to crave it with you.
I think most of all because you initiate it. You enjoy it. You press snooze and instantly pull me back into your arms. And I haven’t felt affection like that in years. And for the first time in years, I’m letting it happen. I guess it kind of scares me, if we’re being honest. I’ve tried to be honest with you. I know you have that with me — sometimes to the point of hurting my feelings. But I guess that’s what fuck buddies are for. To wound someone just enough so that feelings either don’t develop or develop to the point of destruction. Looks like I’ll be facing the latter.
It kills me to see you out in public. I don’t like having one eye on you and the other where it should be. At least when you’re gone I can rest easy. But I know as soon as you leave I’ll get your text. Checking in. Saying the wrong thing (you did so many times tonight). And then I’ll make excuses for you and allow you to come over and hold me in that death grip of cuddle I used to condemn but now secretly love.
Just stop. I get it. You have insecurities. And I’m sensitive to that — we all have them. But is it so hard to understand that I want a mutual destruction of our insecurities’ walls? Why is it so easy to let someone in to the most sacred section that exists (our bodies), yet just as easily write them off for the sake of “feelings?” Why is it so hard to accept that I like you, you like me, WE LIKE EACH OTHER, and see (as adults) where that takes us? Am I adult enough to confront you with this simplistic, mature realization? No, in all likelihood, probably not. I’ve tried in other ways, and it’s backfired. So I’m left, desperately clinging to the idea of you clinging to me, yet waking up two hours earlier than I should to drop you off. “No, it’s no problem!” “No, I have to get up anyways!” “No, don’t even worry about it!”
So, no. I don’t like you. I won’t scare you away with that notion. I’ll just let you hold my vulnerable, insecure body three nights in a row (that’s the agreement!) and hope that maybe, someday, one of us will come around. I know we won’t. Truth is, I know this is going to end disastrously. Catastrophically. Mascara soaked into the pillow bad. For me, obviously. And you’ll be off to destroy the next girl. I guess I just hope it’s a little less worse than me. And until then, cuddle closer my dear.