Cold shower, take out trash, go for run
Femcel pt. 7
“ so, what turned you from a girl from a conservat*ve household and all, to a sex kitten, comfortably naked…” he said. In a way that I know he thought was so slick, so George Clooney, The Mentalist, CSI Miami. But it sounded more like; “you said you’re a virgin so not a whore but you definitely act like one ? why aren’t you the shy and demure girl I expected you to be ?”
I tried to annihilate his already agonizing vibe and said well, it’s not uncommon for people who were raised in very restrictive environments to end up being more sexual than those who weren’t. (Is that not common knowledge ? Good god.) After our first little sessions of simulating what people call sex, he got up and stood in front of my terrace’s glass door, and started looking at the neighbours windows, naked, you know, looking around my place, like it was a museum, and he was a patron visiting the premises. Walking around like a big guy who just got done fucking his woman really good.
He came back on the bed and laid like a mummy with his penis on display and stared at his toes, in a restful, content and satisfied way. I pinched my lips so I don’t burst out laughing because what, the, fuck. I then asked him, “are balls are squishy or hard ?” and then put a finger on them, and he jumped and said ouch !! Bruh. OK.
I got up and asked him if he wanted to eat something because clearly he was not going to take me to dinner. So he said oh, thank you yeah. Didn’t offer to help me out. He then said, oh and, I eat a lot ! I started cooking and he got up, put on his shorts and took out his laptop out of his hiking backpack. I thought he was going to work, but instead he started watching cricket. As I was pouring the large portion of rice in the pot, I realised; oh. I was numb but still had the clairvoyance one needs to see this; I was cooking for a man who’s watching sports in my living room, after he was done with me. A man is going to make you feel like a woman. But who’s idea of a woman ? Heads; his, tails; yours.
Fuck. No luck.
I served him the meal, he liked it, and then I gave him some juice I had made. He tasted it, winced and said it doesn’t taste good, and gave it back to me. I wanted to pour all of it on his stupid face. We started to talk about random things, and he would raise his eyebrows everytime I used a word he didn’t think I was capable of understanding, let alone employ. He brushed his teeth and went to bed, as I cleaned the plates. He said I didn’t eat anything, I said I was not that hungry. When I got done with everything in the kitchen, I started pacing in the living room. He saw me from the bedroom and asked, “what are you doing ?” with a tense and inquisitive tone. I said that I was just thinking. I was just thinking. I don’t remember what about.
I finally joined him in the bed and held his hand to help me fall asleep. The next day, I made him coffee, and he told me he was going to leave rather than spend another night like he said he was. I said ok. He told me there’s a supermarket in my town that he doesn’t have in his, and that he wanted to get a specific set of snacks from there and then take the road. I went with him. I didn’t hold his hand this time. He was chattier that morning. Agitated. He asked me about my parents and what they do (trying to conceal his jealousy about my dad paying my rent, which looking back, it takes a pretty big dose of ignorance and entitlement for a 40 year old man, who’s travelled the world, has always been free and independent, and materially relatively comfortable to be jealous of a girl who he knows hasn’t had access to a quarter of the experiences and opportunities he has. He would’ve preferred that on top of that, I also struggle with paying rent on time by myself.
He also asked multiple times what I had thought of this experience. I was incredulous at the sincerity of these questions, he used a tone that was so artificial. You could tell there was another reason behind them. I said not good not bad, I have no opinion about it. It was true. The pills prevented me from being able to formulate an opinion about what happened. I would ask myself and nothing would come forth. To punish me for this unsatisfactory answer, he told me about his first time, and how it was really bad, and then said that I was lucky that I got to do my first experience with someone like him, a good-looking guy. I couldn’t believe my ears. People who say this sort of thing exist, and he was one of them. When someone says something like this, especially with a soft and relaxed tone like his was, it breaks something in the fabric of reality. It feels surreal. I didn’t reply. He then moved on to politics, after making a stupid remark about how well I knew my way around town.
He started talking about how dirty a certain street we crossed was, and how it was because of conservat*ves, and that people tend to become more conservat*ve with age. He said he was also getting more r*ghtwing. I started getting scared. I’m an imm*grant, and he knew it. From numb, to unwanted, to repulsed, and now scared. This is what you get for choosing someone at quasi-random off of a dating-app.
We arrived at his favourite supermarket and he started picking out his favourite treats. He even said before picking the last one; oh, I’m going to be bad ! or something of the sort. As he was paying for his stuff, he looked at me and said oh ! you want something ? I said no, no, no thank you. I was looking forward to him leaving and me never seeing him again. I was excited actually. That I was never going to see or hear from him again. On our way back, I asked him to expand on his politics. Huge mistake. I knew it was but I did it anyway. As if what he said about it wasn’t enough. I have, I think, Sylvia Plath’s self-harming urge to feel the clinical satisfaction in seeing how bad things get, or maybe the opposite, a naive impulse to double-check, hoping that the results this time won’t be as bad.
I was wrong; at some point in his explanations, he said he thinks it’s a shame to not live in the country you were born and raised in. My heart dropped. He didn’t look at me when he said it. He then turned to me as I kept silent, saw the shock in my face and he said; what ? I’m being honest ! He had spent most of his adult life in different places around the world. The second language he learned, which he seduced me with, has been taught to him by a girlfriend who welcomed him in her village, in one of the countries he moved to. When I Facetimed him, before meeting, I asked him about the map behind him. It was a map of Europe. He said he loved it because it was a Tolkien style map, and it didn’t have state borders drawn on it. I couldn’t even rightfully feel betrayed. This is what you get for choosing someone at quasi-random off of a dating-app.
We got home and he started packing his bag, fast. He hugged me and kissed me, and told me he’d text me when he’d arrive at destination. I went to the toilets and filled my mouth with mouthwash. Gargled. Spat. Washed my face, went to my bedroom, ripped the sheets and the covers and threw them in the living room. I opened the fridge, took out the bottle of wine he had bought for himself and threw it in the bin. I took the clothes I had worn and threw them in the washing machine. Took the ones on my back too, and hopped in the shower. I put some of the Avocado-scented shower gel I had used on him the day before in the palm of my hand, and gagged at the once lovely smell of it. I washed it off and used my old Dove gel. I washed every bit of my body, and went harder on my pussy and on my mouth.
I got out of the shower, dressed up, wore my running shoes and went out to take the duvet and the sheets to the laundrette again. After that I went for a run. I never go for runs. But in that moment it was like an instinct, I ran around the neighborhood, for thirty minutes, uninterrupted. I didn’t even have enough energy to do that. I had not eaten much, and I was borderline underweight. But it felt good.
I got back home with my clean duvet and sheets and laid on my bed. A couple of hours later I received a text saying he just got home, and thank you for this wild weekend. Wild weekend ? I didn’t reply. A little while after that he asked; hey, are you ok ? I stared at the message and blocked his contact. Locked my phone and took out my tablet, and started writing, trying to give myself another avenue to express what I was feeling, since my internal monologue didn’t want to say anything. I wish I could find that Goodnotes file, but I don’t know where it is now. I woke up the next day, took my amphetamines and antidepressants, and went on with my day. Stable and pacified. There was another guy I had started a conversation with, an American guy on a business trip in London. I decided I was going to use this interaction to forget about the one I had just ended. It felt good to do that, I felt empowered. A year ago I was crying because an idiot had not texted me in 5 days.
American businessman was in his mid-thirties, tall, handsome. We Facetimed, decent guy, correct attitude, polite, respectful. I sent him nudes, and he said let’s meet in a couple of days. Wow. I felt wanted. I went out for a walk, carefree and confident. On the next day though, I felt weird. Physically. Something felt off in my body.
Weirdest part is that he watchs cricket
My urge to murder increases with every post