Have you ever really wanted to like someone?
It’s clear they like you. You’re friends adore them, they make you laugh, they seem to do everything right. You can’t fault any of their moves. And it’s not that you don’t find them attractive, because you do. Something’s just off. You can’t put your finger on it, it’s just not there.
I’ve been dragging it out for weeks. Continuously unavailable, it does not deter his affections or determination to secure another date, no matter how long the wait. I hope that by spreading the dates weeks apart I will miss him, that something inside will click and suddenly I will see him how he sees me.
I took him to bed on the fourth date. Part of me believing that this will do it, that a night of passion will kick start my feelings.
He looks at me the way Gatsby looked at Daisy. And I want to be adored; I want to be reminded even for a moment of what it feels like to be loved.
It’s like making love in a film, the definition of ‘perfect sex’. He makes love to all of me, ensuring that not an inch of my skin isn’t kissed or caressed. He slows down to grasp my hair; drawing my eyes up to his he tells me I’m beautiful. I start looking for the cameras. Surely people don’t have sex like this in real life. I feel as though I have stumbled into a scene from the notebook, lost and completely out of place I wait for it to be over.
I don’t deserve his affections, I don’t deserve his compliments. I remain perfectly still as he traces his fingers along my body. Hadn’t I wanted this? Reminded of the quote by Elizabeth Gilbert “Never again use another person’s body or emotions as a scratching post for your own unfulfilled yearnings” I feel ill. Is that all this was? Am I no better than the men that continuously used me for my body when I gave them my soul?