After more than nine months without contact, Tom slid into my inbox. I was angry, so angry. I didn’t believe his reason for contacting me. It’s no longer his business what I’m doing or how I am.
But, there he was. An unread email. We back and forthed, my anger a hot white rage. I was strong. But then, I thought I was happy. I had someone.
A week later, that turned to ashes in my mouth. Yet another man who had feelings for me but didn’t want to be with me, or anyone. Sigh.
It was the perfect chink, a vulnerability. Fuelled by alcohol and coke, I called him on Saturday night. He didn’t answer and I left a drunk rambling message. I thought he’d ignore it. I hoped he would. I hoped he had more resolve than me, a strength I’ve never truly had with him.
He didn’t. One email became two became 10, 50, 100. By 10pm he was in my hotel room, a familiar mess of tangled sheets. It was just like it always was … electric, passionate, intense, different to everyone before and since.
We fucked twice. He left, like always.
I rang him the next evening. He still won’t leave his wife. He won’t choose me. And for the first time in almost a year I went to bed crying. He wrecks me. Every time like a fucking drug. It’s a cruel, unhappy addiction.
I gave up my peace so he could cum. Now I am broken. Again. I’m so, so tired of it. I’ve had enough of being … unwanted? I know he wants me. Unworthy? I deserve more than him. Unloved? Perhaps that’s more apt.
Enough now. Enough.