behind her suddenly enveloped her and shrouded her in abstract and deranged thoughts about her value and place in the world. She had never been so convinced that she didn't belong and she had never believed she should remove herself from the world as strongly as she believed it then.
Her vision thickened with tears and her thoughts fled to the now bittersweet memories of their time together. Everything that used to be shrouded in beauty was now rotting at the edges and she was sick looking at these memories. She wanted them gone. She wished they had never happened, but she knew that those were the abrupt thoughts of a broken and thus spiteful heart. She had loved him and he stopped loving her, and it seemed that nothing in the world could have been worse.
When she met him for the first time, he was reading Ovid and she knew he was going to be an interesting one. They met at her favourite bar, the one that had what she always inaccurately called a carousal bar. Classic crooner jazz flowed from the speakers and the patronage was a smorgasbord of the lone drinkers, the tourists, the university kids and the never-belongs; she fell into the latter category and after they had known each other for an hour, she knew he belonged in that category with her. She ordered another double Jack neat, he another double Jameson, and they nursed their drinks and chatted like old friends while their loins burned.
She took him home that night and he loved her the way she imagined he would have. He fucked like he kissed: with purpose and tenderness, and she was hooked. She decided she wanted him indefinitely. They spent the night, naked on her bed, talking and fucking intermittently. While they talked, he would caress her naked body as if wanting to memorize it with his hands and she would thrill at the feel of his hands invading her every nook and crevice.
"You know, I knew you were hot, but seeing you … your body—you’re unbelievable," he murmured. She turned her head away from him, her face burning red under the compliments he sprinkled her way, not being used to such praise yet having always dreamt of receiving it. She turned to face him again and found his lips—strong, a little dry, and feeling as if they were made to partner hers. His hands in her hair, her hands grazing the stubble of his face, their bodies eager to show the emotions that surged through their souls.
He climbed on top of her, her fingers grasped in his and pinned to the sides of her head. His eyes we're translucent with only the light of the lone, dim lamp, and she could see his lust and she loved it. They didn't need to do any more: he entered her and her pussy embraced his cock like it had done numerous times already that night. It couldn't get enough of that dick, gagging on it and letting it swirl around hitting secret spots even she hadn't known existed. And they writhed together, her arms now around his neck, her nails digging into his shoulders, his hands framing her face, staring at her with a frightening intensity which she found madly arousing. He pulled out and came all over her chest, the hot cum hitting her sweating torso and slipping down the sides. Immediately after, he got up to get a towel and cleaned her up, looking not at all ashamed or embarrassed as some guys do after they cum. He then lay down beside her again and they went back to talking.
They saw each other regularly after that first night and she marvelled at her willingness to feel for him. She would smile when a thought of him strolled through her mind and she would find herself primping herself a little harder before seeing him in order to feel at her most beautiful. She briefly wondered if it was as silly for him to feel for her, but it was a passing thought that she didn't feel deserved much consideration.
She often thought of his body: his skin was smooth and that lovely sort of dark that resembled the shade of perfectly toasted bread. His face would have been unremarkable if she hadn’t found it so remarkable. Dull features, very much like any other man’s, but coming together to form a uniqueness that brightened her eyes and wet her loins. Blonde hair, neatly parted for work but left tousled the rest of the time. She loved he feel of her fingers in that hair, gripping it while he was atop her and introducing his mouth to her body. His hands were hard and calloused, but she liked them best of all. There was something so romantic in a gentle man with rough hands. She loved those hard calloused fingers grazing her body, her jaw, her lips. She loved those fingers exploring her pussy, playing with it and befriending it.
She would think of him often and allow herself to revert into a giddy schoolgirl who’s just found out that her crush liked her back. It was a sort of innocence and purity. She never shied away from her emotions and loved often and openly and unashamedly. From the day she met him, she loved him and that love only matured the longer she knew him. She couldn’t remember a time when she didn’t love somebody in some way. She had so much to give and she didn’t believe in being miserly with something that the world could use more of. She loved him and she told him when the moment struck her and he always blushed slightly and smiled at her, but never returned the sentiment. At least not any time soon. He did eventually, near the end of the affair, but it never bothered her, to love more than she was loved.
Their times together were simple ones. Dinner at home, a drink at the pub, an afternoon in bed with her books and his sketches. Regardless of what they were doing, they managed to take a moment to embrace. She loved kissing him, caressing his face and tickling his neck as she did. Kissing was always more an act of intimacy to her than sex ever would be and she was always glad when she found someone she was eager to kiss. She thought of his mouth before she fell asleep at night, the straightness of his lips and the softness of his tongue. She relived their kisses and her heart thrilled at the memories. She fantasized of the embraces to come and felt alive and that life was worth living for a change. Being enamoured was her favourite thing in the world.
But, she never let herself forget that there was a big chance it wouldn’t last, yet she was still always surprised when it ended.
It would likely be due to an accusation that she was too arrogant, too sure of herself. It was frustrating, he would say, to have to always succumb to her need to be right. He though she was overly confident and had all her shit together, but what he didn’t know—didn't bother to find out—is that she was often crippled by her self-loathing. She had to talk herself up because she need to make herself believe that she was even a sliver of as good as she claimed to be.
In actuality, she honestly thought she was ugly, dumb, horrifically flawed and incapable of succeeding at the simplest of tasks. She craved love and affection but didn’t believe any of it when she got it because why the fuck would anyone want to tolerate her for even a second yet alone longer? It was easy to understand the guys who just wanted to fuck because her holes still worked, but when they wanted more she became suspicious of them. She would talk herself up for her own self in order to keep from giving in and agreeing with the consistent nagging of her soul that only said one phrase ad nauseam: “Kill yourself.” She never wanted to believe it, but she did anyway and she just fooled herself into thinking it was wrong because she was fabulous and gorgeous and wonderful. “But I'm not,” she exhaled with tears that were no longer able to stay hidden. “I'm garbage. And everyone knows it, but I don't praise myself for others. I do it to save my own life.”
But he didn’t get it—they never did, which was a big part of the problem. And so, he inevitably left. He pecked her lips and said it had been enlightening to have met her. He walked away, leaving her stranded on her balcony; her tears spilled as soon as his back turned. She watched him exit the building and cross the street to his bike and wished he'd look back and see her agony physicalized, but he dared not spare even a parting glance. Maybe he knew what he had done to her and was too cowardly to deal with it. Maybe he knew what he had done to her and it would hurt him too much to see it actualized. Maybe he just didn't care.
She walked in and dropped to the floor of the now empty apartment and wept, pounding the floor and choking on sobs. Why did they all leave? Why was she so unlovable that even those who did love her couldn't find a way to stay with her? The loneliness that flowed like a cape