Love Is Dead

They want you or they don’t…

-Elliott Smith, Say Yes

Some wonder what we love-fucked morons are doing to fill in all the blank spaces of time that should be spent writing extended essays full of scorn and voodoo chanting curses for the most recent sweetheart-gone-sour. Well kiddies, most of my time is dedicated to thoroughly fucking up any resemblance of a “love life” that I may or may not have; in short, love is dead and sex overcompensates. There is no point in deluding myself with thoughts of love for those I am sleeping with—hell, most of the time I can hardly wait to have them out of sight and mind, always grabbing my panties, jeans, shirt, socks, and sneakers, then rushing for the door, and speed walking to my car as means for a timely escape. It is not as if the guys I fuck are terrible people who only want sex (most of the time at least), it’s just that I cannot afford to attach myself to any of them based on the emotional high of high-quality sex. The longer I linger at the scene of our affair, naked and smiling, lightly stroking my fingers along the bare skin of the male form lying next to me, the more I feel my heart expanding in preparation for his sweet affection communicated through long kisses, lazy grins, and a constant need for my presence. Realizing that the attachment is not mutual, well that shit sends me into stages of emotional anguish of breaking my confidence into thousands of jagged shards, creating anger directed toward myself because I should’ve known better, hating myself for promiscuity with men lacking real interest in me, and ends with emotional indifference to deal with my suffering.

It is funny that I am so concerned with getting hurt as three-fourths of my men friends are genuinely nice and exhibit concern with my well-being, characteristics not all women may claim of their fuck buddies. Take Tallahassee Mike as an example—he calls daily to check up on me, always inviting me over to his apartment, suggesting places to visit or restaurants to try together. He is such a sweet guy but I can easily say that because I don’t know him very well; I don’t feel like we click and therefore I make excuses as to why I cannot stop by his apartment or hang out on the weekends. However, I enjoy the company of Brian and jump at any opportunity to be with him because the conversation flows so easily and his sense of humor is similar to mine, which apparently is not a very common trait among people. Likewise, I adore being with Tony—although a one-time occurrence at present—which fits since he was a friend way before he became a bedmate. I cannot fathom these three men as heartless assholes with a Jones for harming the hearts of sexual partners claiming a hatred for attached strings, but I understand that any one of them is capable of hurting me nonetheless. I prefer trading in fondness for my partner for many detached sexual incidences to avoid the complications of a broken heart; still, that is not properly executed one-hundred percent of the time but it’s a useful method most of the time, and that works for me.

(Note to self: Honestly now, you know that is a lie. Just like everyone else in the world, you want any one of those men to express his devotion to you, giving away the love you so desperately miss and will cling to like a scared kitten clawing its way up a large tree looking for safety.)