the text from the fuck boy

oh how i want to respond. how silly now as i reflect on my mid-evening indignation, my self-righteous rant recounting how he’d fucked me over not once, but twice! “he won’t make a fool of me again!” these are the literal words i spoke in the year 2021. i mean, that was the best i could do? how about: this motherfucker has got some Harry Styles type confidence to come at me all casual like with a, “thinking about you. hope you’re doing well.” text.

like bro, you don’t give a shit about how i’m doing. you’re lonely, and enough time has passed that you’re thinking: surely she’s gotten over it by now.

NOPE. i’ll hold onto rejection like that one chick in Friends who got her revenge on Chandler like 20 years later (i could look up the episode, but if you know what i’m talking about, you know what’s up). i have middle school bullies i’ve fantasized about making fall in love with me just so in the moment when they confess their inability to live without me, i can remind them of when they mockingly screamed my name as i walked through the halls in 7th grade. and then i’d pour my glass of champagne on their head, and they’d cry as i walk away, realizing none of it was real.

anyway, i digress. so ya, 5 hours earlier, i was all: i’m either gonna tell him off or not respond, because in all honesty, he’s not even worth my time.

flash forward to 2 am mst, and this bitch is thirstyy. and the idea of being objectified and feeling morally liberated from having to give a shit about the dude sounds quite nice right about now.

because here’s the thing: getting off for me has been an uphill battle since a detrimental experience i had when i was 20. and this guy, the faux sensitive, confusingly confident dude has made me cum with just his fingers. psa: if you’re not a woman who’s only dated cis het dudes all her life, maybe this feat sounds rather benign. but for a lady like me who’s had mostly unsatisfactory sexual encounters, this is a detail to write home about. put it on a mug, print it on a shirt, and let it inspire the rest of us ladies to aspire for better pleasure.

so ya, i’m the type of person who will spend 3 straight minutes listing all the reasons i am way too good for and have too much self-respect for a guy like this. but then, when the clock strikes one and i am officially up past my bedtime, i get all kinds of quirky ideas about how i could spend my time.

but here’s the kicker: i think i might actually have too much self-respect… or maybe i don’t have the naivete to continue forward with blindfully optimistic ideas about how it’ll play out (#isthis30?) i mean, i’ve seen a fair share of dick pics in my day, and all around, it’s a pretty “meh” experience. i’m not even one of those people who’s like, “dicks are ugly” (although in full transparency, i’ve def said that in moments of trying to nurture solidarity or really just to appear cool/funny/?). it’s that straight guys don’t know how to be sexy. it’s the dullness that gets me, the total lack of build-up, seduction, stimulation.

i mean, if lover boy was here with those magical fingers, then by all means, i’ll find a way to put up with the lackluster conversation and the half-assed attempts at intimacy. because if you can give me an orgasm, i’ll willingly sacrifice some self-respect.

but goddamn, maybe i will just text him… or maybe i’ll just “dream” of him 😉

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