Get Out Of My Bed

People ask if we are dating. We say, “We see each other.” I don’t know if we ever coordinated on those answers, but they always come out the same. I think the more honest response would be “We’re having sex occasionally because neither of us has anything better going on but we’re both lonely and we know that nothing more is going to come of this.”

I wonder if you would get jealous if I found someone else, someone more real. I wouldn’t.

There is no nice way to tell someone to leave your bed. You cannot make them go. They’re like vampires — you’ve welcomed them in, now they are here until they decide it’s time to go. But how do you make it clear that you are here for the sex and the few minutes of mock-closeness which surround it, and not for anything else? Do you set some kind of a timer, and then give them a stern, knowing look the minute it goes off? I would set a timer, but you would get mad. You would tell people that I was a bitch, and they would believe you, because it would be true.

People tell us all the time that we should be together, that we would make such a good couple, that we’re “basically already dating.” What does that mean? Is sex the only important component of dating? Because, ironically enough, I consider us as far apart from a couple as we could possibly be in every other department. I don’t particularly enjoy your company alone; I find dinners with you tedious. And you feel the same way about me, I’m pretty sure. I think that you’ve told people we’re sleeping together, but I want to pretend that you haven’t.

Once I considered dating you just because it would be interesting to try. It would be easy and comfortable.

But then I remembered that I often insist on the lights being off when we have sex because I can’t stand to acknowledge your face when you’re over me.

You once referred to it as “making love.” I made sure to laugh hard enough that you would know I considered it unquestionably sarcastic. I think you were a little hurt.

Sometimes I wish that I could make myself care about things more, that I could recognize the good people who come into my life and offer themselves up to me in ways I know I cannot reciprocate. But I can’t, because life often works that way. There are people who matter, and there are placeholders. We meet someone who matters, and it doesn’t work out, and for a while after you are looking for someone to recreate bits and pieces of what you had with the important one. We have been recreating whatever that was for some time now, but we both know (maybe I do slightly more than you) that there is nothing here we’ll miss when it’s gone.

I often wish that I could call out his name when we are together, but I know that I can’t. I know that it would break the fourth wall and reveal to all the participants that I am more than aware of how unimportant this really is. And there may be an ounce of importance in it for you. We all have our crosses to bear, I guess, I just wish I didn’t have to bear mine while naked.

Please get out of my bed. I don’t want you getting any ideas.