Clue, don’t cha know. I should get a clue by now. That fantasy is way better than reality. Always.
Recently here in Massachusetts, the Governor declared a State of Emergency. Most people lost electricity and heat. I was one of the fortunate to get restored fairly quickly after a few days. My ex was on my mind, wondered how he was faring, I called him. Some people do it and then later blame drunk-dialing, ass-dialing or some such tom foolery. Not me. All it takes is for me to listen to Adele‘s “Someone like me” and my fingers can do the walking, stone cold fucking sober.
I’m not sure if you call it a “slip” or if its total relapse if you actually have full-blown sex with your ex. I know one thing is for sure. It feels like shit the day after, when there’s no phone call from him. Or the day after that. Or the day after that. Or the day after that. It was empty on his end. It always was.
Like I said, fantasy is always better than reality. I pretend he loves me and he……..I guess he just fucks me.
Fantasy is just that. I have this fucked up vision, this man, a white-knight on a steed, that’s going to rescue me from the evil in the world, the monsters under the bed, maybe, maybe from the demons in myself. Somehow I superimposed that image of the knight in shining armor on my ex. I wanted it to happen so bad, that I was able to deny what was right under my own fucking nose. In my case, a sex-addicted partner sleeping with prostitutes, doing gang-bangs, a swinger fucking other men’s wives as they blew their husbands, casual encounters from Craigslist, and even blew a few men as a cuckold.
His penchant for sadism and misogyny would eventually take its toll on my body, mind, and spirit. Whippings, Canings, Floggings, til my tits and ass were purple and welted or cherry red. He never respected my safeword. He never provided “aftercare”. He thought of my body as “his canvas“. I think the most fucked up thing I ever let him do was shove a Colt 45 in my ………
And that was the man who was really existing underneath the veneer I created. The devil himself.
Maybe I am a masochist after all. An emotional masochist. Who would endure getting rejected over and over again. Replicating the same gut wrenching pain, hoping “this time” will change. That “this time” he will see that I have worth, beauty. This time, he won’t scream at the top of his lungs again, if I ask a question he doesn’t want to answer or look at him the wrong way.
I hate myself for picking up that phone and calling him instead of doing something “different”, like other healthier people in recovery that I know are doing. Instead I fucked up and reached out for the familiar, knee-jerk jerk, hard-wired reflexive patterns that I know all too well.
Two steps forward and ten-thousand light years back……least that’s how it feels tonight.
Everyone knows Miss Scarlet was a whore and everyone knows Professor Plum was doing her.