vinylgirl's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I don't want to be a call girl Of course, he always comes through at the 11th hour. Usually around 11 p.m. on Friday with a simple "Watcha upto?" text. I know what's coming: We'll exchange some pleasantries and then he'll ask if I want to come over and I'll say sure -- give me half an hour. Sometimes he's extra sweet and will say that he's longing for me or missing me. And it works. I pack my toiletries in my purse and hop on a streetcar. But, I always have this moment when I'm sitting on the streetcar where I feel a bit like a call girl. "Is this a booty call?" I ask myself. Then I think, "So what if it is. I like sex. I like having sex with him. Who cares?" I remind myself to accept this for whatever it is and to enjoy it while it lasts. It might not be forever, but it's pretty great right now. And then I find myself straddling him, after the hottest, best 45-minute-long sex I've ever had, gently kissing his forehead, running my fingers through his hair and nuzzling my nose on his nose and along his cheek. I find myself literally and emotionally attached to him. I think this is where the crazy starts. Soon we'll be under the covers in his bed, he'll wrap both arms around me and pull me against him, kiss my hair and say goodnight. Every time he does it, I melt a bit inside. I want to tell him I'm crazy about him, but I hold back and just smile. In the morning we'll be in such a rush to get ready for work that the tenderness of the previous evening will give way to practicalities. A small peck and a "Have a great day," and we part. This is when the fear sets in. It's as if each time we have sex, I feel as though I've given up another piece of myself and I believe that he's gotten what he wanted from me and so I am now disposable to him. I begin to mentally prepare myself for him not to get in touch. Savour it, I remind myself. There's always a little part of me that hopes I am wrong and that believes he really cares. But, I can't listen to her -- that would mean jumping off an emotional ledge. I prefer to stand, however precariously, on the ledge. I can always step back down to safety and I can jump when I know he will catch me. The past two times he's late-night texted me, I wasn't as flattered or eager to rush to his arms. I'm not sure that's the kind of girl I want to be. So I coyly rebuff his pleas, however sweet. I know that I risk him disappearing, but I need to make sure that I'm not just a sex toy. However good the sex is, I cannot seem to stop myself from getting attached. I'm less modern, less progressive than I thought I was. 3:02 p.m. - 12/04/2011 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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