One day I sent that sweet and gorgeous sex male worker from America some more recent nudes, where I had lost more weight. I had failed a couple of modules because of my heartbreak, and the Vyvanse was making me delusional about how well I was hanging on with both these failures, and about the rhythm at which I was losing weight.
He told me that he was worried and that I needed to eat more. And poor him I even made him tell me he still found my body to be very sexy, probably because he could tell how fragile I was. I told him thank you for being patient with me (I previously had some reproachful remarks about him lying about his age, which I later found out he did lie, go figure why because he’s still very young), and he said “all relations, even texting and sexting on reddit requires patience”.
Again, I’ll reiterate, I’ve never had a man be this kind and sweet to me, ever. His answers and his collected attitude, the way he’d shower me with compliments, about my body, my personality… It was overwhelming though. Because I’d be horny from the sexting, and then I’d cry from the affection he gave me, and then I’d feel bad and disgusted about the fact that he was into me, and about the fact that he was younger than me (like I said I later found out that was a lie).
Soon after the underweight nudes though, he ghosted me. I thought I’d be really sad and frustrated about it but I wasn’t. It was a defining moment in my unloved life; I realised heartbreak’s depth and magnitude isn’t proportional to how much you’ve loved the person as much as it is about how loved or wanted you’ve felt throughout your contact with that person. When your heart breaks, it breaks for you. The Californian guy broke my heart from the day we started texting. The heartbreak that followed the no-contact was just a more intense version of the one I felt from the very times we spoke, more intense because no-contact meant he was no longer there to distract me from it.
The sex worker didn’t break my heart when he ghosted me because he never broke my heart in the first place. So I just let him go, grateful that I had met him (even if it was just online). To be honest, when I found out he’s not actually four years younger than me, it was weird, it made him more attractive, because I usually have that stupid thing where if you’re even 6 months younger than me, I feel inadequate, but it also made him less attractive because why would you lie like a clown. But anyways sometimes I go on reddit and look at his real account ( I found it because I scrolled through pictures of BWCs on r/BWC and I recognised his hahahahaha I know. I know. I know omg! let me live)
Anyways hahhahaaha. I’m thankful for having been in contact with him, liar angel with a big dick and a perfectly chiseled body. Also I talked to him knowing there was probably no way his diznik (diznick ? ahaahahah omg) would fit. At the time I had just started wearing tampons, yes, at the big, advanced, geriatric age of 24, because I was raised in a tampons-deflower-you nation, and kept that fear well after having made it to the land of the free pussies. But at some point enough is enough ! I hate pads, and I hate my periods, I’m not connected with the divine feminine. I have PCOS, and the periods were irregular, and they marked a premature end to a childhood I was comfortable in, so, no, I wanted out of the Always night time, stuff some more toilet paper just in case, oh fuck my mattress, oh we can tell I’m wearing a pad, we can HEAR I’m wearing a pad, and I have to act like no one has noticed etc.
Third or fourth time I put one on, I felt like I had forgotten to remove the previous one. I wasn’t sure. I checked and counted how many there were on the box, how many wrappers in the bin, I couldn’t tell for sure whether one was missing, I went on google and read about toxic shock syndrome (how you can lose a leg or die ! if you leave or misuse tampons etc.) for a couple hours, and then I panicked and called the emergency services. They told me to go to the hospital the next day, so I can have someone check if there’s one I had forgotten in there. I had the wonderful opportunity to repeat “I think I forgot a tampon inside me, but I’m not sure” to three different people, and then I had a lovely doctor push a speculum through my quasi-intact hymen to finally annihilate my doubt about this goddamn tampon. It hurt so much my ears rang when she was done. At some point I put my foot on her chest to push her away, I actually can’t believe I did this. She wasn’t shocked or anything, she took out the speculum and said she was able to see around 70% of the inside of my vagina, and said it is very very less likely that I had actually forgotten one in. She said other things but the ringing in my ears prevented me from receiving any of it.
After that, I went to the toilets and I cried and shaked, and then I went to a cafe where I ordered a latte and looked at people around me with a sense of derealisation, like I had just landed on planet earth. It was hard to lay down to sleep that night, I had registered laying-down-means-danger in such a short amount of time. But it dissipated and disappeared a few days later, thankfully. I tried tampons again a couple of months after that and I eventually got hold of it.
Now the issue was that I got too skinny. And I started restricting my eating too. I had also fully adopted the eating disorder lifestyle, with all the algebra, control and delusion. I had gone through brief disordered eating episodes throughout my adolescence and early twenties, so I guess the software was installed and ready to operate. I got anorexic, not only as a side effect of my stimulant prescription, or as a side effect of my first heartbreak, but also with the full self-annihilating ideology; I would see my body looking unattractively thin, but still, to me, it was more unattractive to see a higher number on the scale than anything happening anywhere else. Including in my family’s reactions and attitudes, who were as obsessed about getting me to confess the reasons behind this unprecedented weightloss as I was about preventing any weight gain and obfuscating what was happening within.
Deep down, I knew what I was doing. I was trying to disappear. I wanted to suffer in a way that was rational and that made sense, and that I could control. I wanted to succeed at something. I had failed classes, failed at being desirable, failed at protecting myself from pain, even keeping track of a tampon, I had failed at. Or maybe that too, was in a way, my mind abandoning my body and exposing it to harm, to punish it, in a way that can be actually felt in my body, rather than pain that hides and makes you lie to yourself and appear weak and naive and incompetent to the rest of the world.
The full body laser, the weight loss, the hair straightening. The full Black Swan moment, was also me annihilating and punishing the version of my body I had humiliated myself with, by presenting it to a guy found it to be not enough. Communicating with someone who isn’t sure about whether or not you are worth a coffee damages you in ways that seem so exaggerated compared to what actually (didn’t even) happen. But the truth is, every single day nothing happens, or too little happens, you live a rejection. We texted almost everyday for five months. It’s 152 days. He’s never wanted to take me on a date. In reality, I got rejected 152 times. That’s why it took only a quarter of this time to subsequently lose more than 40 pounds, and acquire such a deep desire to look and be nothing like I used to.
But even as I got over him, and felt absolute disgust at the thought of him, I kept going with what I felt like obtaining a revenge body, or more like a revenge taken out on my body. I then downloaded Hinge and Bumble again, feeling this time, numb and attractive enough to finally be dated, desired, liked. And this time also, I was no longer shy about my body. My body was no longer personal to me. It was new, hairless, and pudgeless. Naked no longer felt like naked. I had removed what there was to hide. My breasts were gone and my stomach was flat. Only problem was behind. I had no butt left, and sagging skin on the lower end of it. Actually you could see my butthole when I’d bend over just a tiny bit. It made walking feel really weird. I could feel the wind or the air there as I walked. So I started wearing thongs to prevent catching colds. (you can laugh).
Anyways, I matched with a 39 year-old guy who seemed ok. Quite tall, spoke a second language he had learned from scratch as white British guy, (unlike their ancestors British guys are generally uninterested in other languages, except the nerds who learn 4 dead languages and one-up each other on r/deadlanguages about how [} is not pronounced Kh’i rather than K’hi because of the variations in the ancestral texts found between 56 AD and 45AD in Huwjypt III’s manuscripts). Anyways, we flirted and talked about sex and I let him know that I was about that shit. He said he’d love to have sex with me, and I said I’ve never had sex or kissed or did anything before, and it didn’t seem to bother him.
I knew these weren’t ideal conditions for a first sexual experience, but at that point, I thought the worst thing that could happen isn’t actually sex with a loss of interest the next few days, it was no interest at all. And I thought the stupidest thing I could do was to put myself in a position that could result in anything that looks like a situationship. Above all, the worst for me was the loss of time, energy and the humiliation. At least with a one night stand, you get a simulacra of desire and affection, and no unnecessary time, energy and emotions wasted on waiting for and analysing his stupid texts, building conjectures about his attachment style, and missing out on life and sleep at age 24 looking through the hot women on his follower list.
Can't wait for the next part urrghhh
part 4 was hilarious but this is horrifying, phenomenal description of body horror. wonder what you're gonna cook in part 6