and/or disappear.
What I have sought in love is a reprieve from the itch of consciousness—to transcend myself and my human imperfections—but this has yet to happen. What has happened, instead, is a lifetime of fictional love stories; fiction, in that I have perceived every new experience through the veil of my own insecurities. Here are some of those stories.
I’m in love with you and you don’t want anything to do with me so I think we can make this work: a love story.
Just saw two ants drown together in my bathtub and it reminded me of us: a love story.
The saddest part of fucking you in that motel room was not when you took a shit in the bathroom before we fucked and not when I had to put on Tupac to mask the sound of you shitting and not when the smell leaked out into the hotel room and not when I licked behind your balls after you took that shit, even though you hadn’t showered (I don’t care, to be honest. I think that germs have kept me healthy and strong my whole life. It was only when I told my friend the story and she called me out on it that I realized my disregard for my own personal health might be indicative of a deep self-hatred.), but when I went into the bathroom an hour after you took the shit and there were still shit marks in the toilet bowl and I thought about how if it had been me who took the shit I would have absolutely gone into that toilet bowl with my bare hand and a piece of toilet paper and wiped it down and how maybe this particular brand of self-consciousness regarding shit marks is a developmental variation in response to the fundamental differences in expectations placed upon men vs. women in this society, though that’s probably too reductive: a love story.
That’s not the clitoris: a love story.
The anxiety of the sexual act is my sexual act: a love story.
Definitely thought I was a lesbian until we dated and then I thought I might just be asexual, or not asexual, actually, but even more deeply fucked up than I ever knew: a love story.
I never liked myself: a love story.
Sorry I fell asleep while you were going down on me: a love story.
One night I dreamt you had a gherkin instead of a penis and when I saw you at work the next day I thought I was in love with you (the thing about spending eight consecutive hours in a confined space with the same people day after day is there will always be that one person who appears more special and attractive than he or she actually is), so when we ended up having sex on three different occasions I said never again after each time, though when you licked my ass it felt so intimate that it made me want to buy you beautiful shirts, and when I asked you if you would ever want to be with me for real (if I didn’t already have a boyfriend) you said yes (but it’s easy to say yes when the other person is already taken): a love story.
I wanted to build a fire with our shadow selves and burn there or be erased by the narcotic of limerence when I turned your face into a fire: a love story.
I don’t even masturbate to you anymore because it’s too sad: a love story.
My therapist calls you pancake ass: a love story.
It’s not that I’m shutting you out when we have sex, I just need to fantasize about obese women caring for one another’s vaginas to have a good orgasm and you’re a midsize man: a love story.
Just because you have beautiful eyes doesn’t mean you’re deep: a love story.
When you said, Don’t obsess, just feel the feelings, I said no: a love story.
Sorry you are having a really good life and are contented by it: a love story.
I don’t want to be older and wiser, I want to be younger and hotter: a love story.
In the dark you looked so human in your skin that I called you human in my head and didn’t want you then and felt relieved: a love story.
When you said that your sexual ideal is romantic sex where both partners say I love you as they are coming, and then do that with a different person every day, I totally agreed except I only wanted to