I suppose you could say I inadvertently started it this time.
It wasn’t quite an argument, but it wasn’t a friendly bickering either. One minute we were talking about exams and fetishes, and the next he wasn’t playful anymore, instead accusing me of using him. Apparently he had accepted it a long time ago. Apparently I gave off an impression that made him think my intentions were elsewhere. Down to fuck, ready to collect my stamp, and move on.
I shouldn’t have brought up fetishes. Not because we’d never chatted about those things before – hell no, this was fairly vanilla for us. But the talk of fetishes started it all off.
So I poured out to him, knocking down a couple of bricks off the wall – my defence mechanism that stops me from getting too hurt – that I had been building up all this time. I told him how his less-than-peachy actions from before had changed me, and how I accepted it for what he was. That he only wanted one thing. Down to fuck, ready to collect his stamp, and move on. And how I started to believe that I could be okay with that too.
It’s not the first time something has rocked the boat. Sometimes I’m surprised we’re both still sailing in the same boat together. But the whole thing knocked me for six that entire afternoon. What was I being accused of? Was I really giving off the impression that I thought he was giving off? Was it the NSFW text exchanges that did it? Because we were both known for doing that a lot. I was in the shittiest mood by the time the clock struck for the weekend, turning down every invitations to head to the pub with my colleagues. I went home and sobbed instead.
He’d barely replied to my previous texts. “What do you want?” I asked. I was feeling particularly brave, and if he was going to tell me he didn’t want me then I needed to know now. Enough time for two full days of eating a bunch of junk, watching Titanic in my pyjamas and sobbing it out before the next working week started.
But I didn’t think of anything else. In the Notes section of my phone I’d composed rebuttals to the various outcomes I thought he’d come back with. I wanted to be prepared for these lemons coming my way. When I finally mustered up the courage to turn my phone back on, there were three messages from him. Fuck, this was it, he was going to tell me what he wanted. And I was sure it wasn’t me. “I’m not sure right now, but what I am sure of is that I’d like to spend some time with you”.
I suppose, the lemons didn’t turn out to be quite so sour after all. They made a lemon meringue pie. I was hoping for a lemon drizzle cake, but you know what? I can work with this. Perhaps I am glad I started talking about fetishes after all.
(PS. Let’s call him M. Because I have a feeling I’ll be writing about him some more).