I am going to hell.
& the immense fucking temptationto just click on that little word & IM him and relive fuckings and suckings and imagine potential pressing-of-the-flesh—it is weaker every day but still strong at night, after a day of driving a stick shift and feeling bass beat up through my lower body. I can imagine what I could write to him, and what pictures he will ask for, and what he might say if I were to call, and the sounds he would make as he came; and then I remember, for example, that he’ll call me a bitch because he thinks I like it—I don’t; it’s ‘slut’ that is my sexual talisman—and instead I want to hire a hit on him. I’ll remember that he does not brush his teeth at night, and that even if he does, his toothpaste tastes like orange-sugar. I’ll remember that he never washes his towel and it always smells musty from being suffused with mildew. But on the flip side: I’ll remember being sober while he’s drunk, and he’s pressing me against a wall in a dark hallway, only in boxers, his cock like a fucking baton against my stomach—and he tells me, out of arrogance, “Whiskey dick is never a problem I’ll suffer from,” because he knows many of the boys who want to hook me seem to have an issue with alcohol, and he continues, “in fact I probably have the opposite problem.” He lives in an apartment with five other boys, and he begs me to fuck in the bathroom while they sleep.
I think I hate him. I’m not exactly sure.
quitting a lover is like quitting nicotine - the cravings come back in waves and seem all consuming in their delicious terrible temptation. the cycle sowly decreases, and you will, for a time, wonder if you have lost the ability to feel something which was unquestionably fun, but then you’ll realize, without even being conscious of missing the sensation, that this lack of want for that which was destructive is, in fact, what feels good. ha /quitting smoking rant.
