Stuck Somewhere Between Wanting To Be Loved And Wanting To Be Fucked

There’s someone I can’t stop missing or thinking about, but he tends to forget I exist, and my pride carries more weight than anything he can make me feel, so I pick another name from my contact list.

I text the guy from Spring and the worst part of Summer of 2017. “Hey”, is all I say after 14 months.

Fuck it. I’m bored. I’m sad. I’m angry. I want some attention. I want someone to remind me I am alive and breathing. And more importantly, I am self-destructive.

The reply is immediate, “What’s up, stranger?”

I don’t know whether to curse or give the universe a quick thanks, but he says he’s up in Washington for a couple of months. He lies and tells me he wishes he could see me. He says I’d really love it there and suggests I come for a visit. I tell him to buy me a flight if he’s serious. Because in this moment, why the fuck not, because I’m numb, because I really need to be fucked.

He says he misses the way I purr and all my Spanish speaking in bed and “maybe a couple of other things.”

I bet he does.

I smile, but it quickly fades.

Sometimes it feels like that’s all I am.

Sometimes it feels like that’s all I ever could be to anybody. Just a body. Just a mouth with a superb set of skills. Just a pair of hands enchanted with talent. Some real-life pornography. A fantasy. A file to take out from the memory bank to jerk it to.

I once had this guy tell me how guilty he felt because he couldn’t cum when he was with his girlfriend unless he started thinking of me and the things we’d done. I wasn’t flattered. All I could think about was how I wanted to be the thought someone woke up to each morning and went to bed warm with each night. How I wanted someone to think of me in the sense that they considered me. How I wanted someone to think of me like they knew me.

I’ve never known what it’s like to be adored. To be cherished.

I’ve had a couple of boyfriends. I was once, for all goods and purposes, someone’s mistress. But, there’s just never really been anyone who obsessed over me in ways that weren’t explicitly sexual.

Is it a little pathetic for me to admit that I just really want to be loved?

In all of my 30 years, I don’t think I’ve ever been.

I have no qualms with casual sex, with coming to some sort of physical arrangement with someone. I know how to separate sex from feelings. I don’t have a hard time remaining detached. Some part of me actually finds it easier.

It’s actually extremely difficult for me to feel a connection with anyone. I wonder if it is just as difficult for other people to feel some kind of anything for me. I know I’m strange. I know I’m someone that’s hard to understand. I know I’m always too much. I know I also keep a lot to myself. Way too much. I think that even those closest to me don’t really even know me. It makes me wonder how other people see me. What their idea of me is.

I know what men’s idea of me is, at least that of those I find myself involved with. That’s easy. I suppose I can’t blame them. I only let them see what I want them to see. I let them think what they want to think. I keep most of my thoughts around them to myself. They think they’re so sly, I bet they’re actually pretty proud of themselves. In reality, I’m the one that’s conniving. I let them dumb me down to their idea of me. I take the power by letting them think they have it.

Lately, I’ve found myself bored. I haven’t even been engaging in any dalliances. There’s someone I met that moved me in ways I’ve never really been moved, but I’m not sure about him.

For a while now, I’ve been finding it so difficult to love myself and heal, that I haven’t really cared much for romance. I gave up on love a long time ago. Sex was the next best thing it seemed.

I think about what would happen if I took this offer for a trip. I’m so tempted. I think about the way he used to suck on my tongue and bite down on my lip until I could taste the metal. I think about how he’d keep me in place with a fistful of my hair while he painted my backside in shades of red and pink. I think about how generous and good he was with his mouth. It wouldn’t be my first transcontinental booty call. But what’s that thing they say, put out what you want to attract, put in what you want to receive?

I want sex. I want it so bad. I am so empty right now. I want to feel anything taking up space inside of me. But lately, I find myself lusting after something a little more meaningful. It’s got me wondering how good the sex would be.

I want to meet someone who makes me want to let them know me. Someone who is so intrigued by everything that makes me me. I want to meet someone who breaks down all my barriers and takes away my fears of intimacy.

I want to tell someone how out of anything I could ask for, I’d pick seeing the Northern Lights. I want someone who will understand my obsession with celestial bodies. I want someone who will understand what it means when I say I’m a witch. Someone who won’t think it’s weird that I get lost on the internet reading up on aliens, serial killers and conspiracy theories.

I want someone to understand just how important my Mexican heritage and culture is to me. Someone who would support me when I’d wear my Mexico soccer jersey over USA’s if they ever found themselves playing against each other.

I want someone who reads even the darkest of my poems and doesn’t feel put off. Someone who will see me write about past lovers or experiences and will never feel threatened.

I want to let someone in on how when I bring cookies to bed I believe the calories are free because it’s after midnight and no one can see. I want to meet someone who makes me feel safe opening up about why I started going to therapy to begin with.

I want to share so many things. More than just sweat and more than just skin.

I’m lusting after something meaningful.

I dream of meeting someone who looks at me like I’m more than some girl through which they can fulfill their fantasies. I want someone who looks at me like I carry the answers to every mystery in the universe. Someone who smiles when I walk into the room. Someone who can’t keep their hands off of me, not because of what I have, but because of who I am.

If I met them, just how good would the sex be? As good as if I got on that plane? Better?

I’m stuck somewhere between wanting to be loved and wanting to be fucked.