It wasn’t that my body was wrong, for a start. Over the course of our relationship I changed a lot – sometimes I looked fucking spectacular and other times I looked crap. Same with him. I fancied the fuck out of him, always, regardless of what shape or size his body was or how he’d chosen to dress it today. We lived, we grew, we changed: our bodies could never have been the reason why we broke up.
I don’t sleep in our bedroom any more, I decamped to the spare room months ago. There are too many ghosts in our bedroom now, I do not like being in it. The room in which my ex-boyfriend used to work (and play, and sleep, and live) has long since been closed off: I use the space for drying laundry, but the door to it is firmly shut unless I’m hanging socks. This house is riddled with shadow-versions of him, and most of them congregate in there.
I know some people fixate on the lovers their partners have known before they got together, but I don’t think that’s my bag. When your partner gets with you, you’re the best one, obviously: all their exes fade into the shadows because your own star is shining so brightly. I prefer to fixate on the lovers who come afterwards. Those better, cooler women with filthy sex ideas and amazing tits and brand, shiny, sparkling new stories. Luckily for me, though, this isn’t a problem, because shortly after I break up with someone a lovely cosy limousine arrives to pick him up and he goes to live with all my other ex-boyfriends in a beautiful pasture far, far away.
“He picked me up,” I tell her and she says “Ooh! He picked you up?!” and both of us grin because we know – we know – the pickup is a pretty sexy move. We also both know that, while I may be many things, ‘small’ is not one of them. I am not easily pick-uppable. Nevertheless, this guy picked me up and threw me onto the bed. Hot.
We’ve been on a total of two dates, and had exactly the same number of fucks, so I don’t really know this guy at all. I know him exactly as well as I know anyone who’s willing to share a bottle of wine and a swift fuck with me, but still: he’s promising. What is it that makes someone promising? How do you turn a first date into a second, and then a third?
Note: there’s a time delay on a lot of blog posts at the moment, so although we’re in lockdown now, this date happened when it was legal. I am naughty but not that kind of naughty.