What It’s Like To Be A Serial Monogamist

My ex-boyfriend used to call me a serial monogamist (he probably still does). And, as wrong as he was in regards to many aspects of my life, he is absolutely correct. I am a serial monogamist, I never gave him the satisfaction of saying it out loud, but here it is.

This whole 21st century hook up culture just doesn’t cut it for me. I am by no means into slut shaming, I’m all for it. If I could be a slut, I would. But I can’t; I need something mad, passionate, and extraordinary. I would much rather have someone who will stick around for a while and break my heart, not someone who will stick around for a night, and break my bed.

 With every failed relationship, drama surrounded hookup, and broken heart, you think I would eventually become too wounded to engage in such activity. You think I’d become weary, cautious, guarded, something. You think by now I’d be completely numb to any sort of affection. I have learned a few lessons, taken a few notes, and most importantly I’ve learned that I can give someone every part of me, and have that still not be enough.

Despite this, despite countless tears, and a strange connection to specific TV show plots and Adele songs, I am prone to love. I am flirtatious, sometimes without meaning to be. I’ll shoot you a smile from across the hall, or send you a text late at night. Because if I care about you, you’ll know it. 

I am addicted to love, or a hopeless attempt to find it, anyway. The object of this infatuation has changed throughout the years; I balance this need for affection in an almost hungry sort of manner. Something about the stolen glances and butterflies in your stomach. Stressing about your makeup, and the way that they smell, whether it be the sweet smell of their sweat or a product of cologne. I’m crazy for their confidence, the way they stumble when they’re nervous, and the way it feels when their rough lips touch yours. 

Yes, I admit I am a women who loves men. It’s not about the sex, or the titles, it’s not about bringing someone home for Christmas. My infatuation, if you will, has been tested. I’ve loved someone more than they loved me. I’ve cheated, and been cheated on. I’ve cried myself to sleep, but nothing has yet to keep me going back for more. And if I knew how, I would stop. 

Sometimes, I think this is a problem. I care too much, and love too often. Eventually, I’ll marry someone who, at the sound of their name will make me blush. Someone who will make every heartbreak and bad date worth it. But, before that I’ll love, again, and again, and again. Because it’s impossible not to. TC mark

featured image – Carmen Jost

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