Thursday, 10 September 2015

The Ego Boost

I'd been sleeping with Jason* for around two years now, the last year of it I'd been asking myself why. When once our escapades were once exciting, adventurous and created unforgettable experiences that I'd replay often at night. Our visits to each other were now far more mundane..
We'd meet up, do what we came to do, and go our separate ways. Sometimes we wouldn't even talk before, or kiss during. Before I would spend the night, we'd watch movies and actually converse in one way or another, now I'd be lucky now to get more than half an our out of him. Heck some days I'd make a cup of tea before he'd arrive and it would still be warm by the time he left. No longer did I feel his warm skin on mine for longer than a brief moment, nor would I feel his large arm hooked around my shoulders. My hand wouldn't even trace his chest, as though it were uncomfortable with being around his heartbeat. It was like we'd managed to use up all the passion in the early days and now there was nothing left but the badge of promiscuity that we both held so tightly and wore with such pride. Although I had strained to tell myself otherwise for so long, the sex was no longer about pleasure for me. And as he came and went each time, I started to wonder whether it was entirely about pleasure for him either.

We had what I would refer to as an autistic relationship. We were about as disconnected as two people could be and these days, could barely look one another in the eye. Our conversational skills were that of a three year old who's drunk babysitter had let him watched an episode of South Park. Our highly intelegent discussions consisting only of  'Oh', 'Yeah' and 'I'm gonna cum'. They were less heart-to-hearts and more head-to-heads, you could say. Sex for me, has to be passionate to be good. That passion could come from excitement, being with someone new, trying something different or even as simple as having a connection to one another, even just as friends, and understanding each others bodies. When we were together our bodies were less like the back pages of compilation magazine and far more like two magnets being forced together at the wrong end. I didn't know how to move around him anymore, we were stiff, awkward, hands and legs everywhere but never where he wanted them. I didn't get it - I could get sex, crazy, passionate, hot-blooded sex elsewhere. So why, why did I still yearn to see him so much more.

Maybe it was a quick fix, to fuel my unhealthy obsession with his body, a little something every now and again to top me up. Maybe it was  because I loved the convenience and flexibility of our arrangements, and the simplicity of our relationship together, or rather lack there of. Not having to over-think or over-complicate anything did make sex so much easier. But perhaps it was deeper than that, because every time he left, my mind wouldn't stop bothering me 'what was the point of that', 'that was a waste of time and you know it', and I did. 

You see no matter what my I thought in the moments when he left my house or I left his. If he calls me up any time thereafter I will be there. He can have me, whenever. 

Why? Because despite my dissatisfaction with our frequent exploits, He gives me a kick. I get a kick  out of him wanting me. Not because I want him, never have I had feelings beyond fantasies for this man, but because he is the type of guy that would never want me in the real world. As Taylor Swift would say, 'he's so tall, handsome as hell'. He was big, strong unbelievably attractive and ridiculously successful. The type of guy you would far sooner see papped with a gorgeous model hanging off his arm than anywhere with the likes of me. If given longer I would be able to stare at him for hours,  boy that body could send someone to A&E. He was perfect in every feasible way, almost to the point that it irritated me.

I however.. am clumsy, pale and the type of person that has facial features one might refer to as 'quirky'. I almost always have a bad dye job going on, and I always, always say the wrong thing. I am  quite possibly the farthest away from perfect one might imagine. When I've been with men like him before in a romantic manner, it has always quite frankly gone tits up. They never wanted me for a prolonged period of time despite my sincere infatuation. I guess perhaps seeing Jason was just a way for me to keep the fantasy alive. To pretend for half an hour or so that I was more than I really was.

So if I'm so imperfect you might wonder, why did he keep coming back? The simple answer would be because he can. He's a guy and I have a vagina,  A + B = C.  But I think with him it could be more than just that for him. Just as I do, Jason needs to wear his badge of promiscuity for reasons farther than letting the world know that his metaphorical taxi light is on. In the years we've been sleeping together, as far as I can tell he's never been with anyone romantically. He's shy, unbelievably shy.  It's hard to imagine what he's like around other women. I think maybe in many ways he is just as insecure as I am, and he needs me to it prove to himself that he's not. That he can have whoever he wants, whenever he wants.

In reality we're both faking it. In it for all the wrong reasons, insecure and constantly in search for the unmistakable aphrodisiac of an ego boost.

Belle x

*all names changed for anonymity 

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