An Open Letter to the Boy Whom I Let Fuck Me In a Manner I Thought I Had Forgotten

As I’m sure you know by now, there are many things I’m not good at, but I was always really good at math, so let’s start there.

Forty-two from ninety-eight is fifty-six—and this number represents the amount of cocks I’ve sucked since the first time I had yours in my mouth until the day I realized I loved you. I mean, I s’pose I don’t know for sure if I’ve actually sucked that much cock in three years, but I do have a penchant for opening with my best move. Of two things, though, I am sure:
1. I’ve definitely fucked that many people since then.
2. Thirteen from 150 is 137—and that is how much I now weigh.

Let’s chat for a bit about the latter, as the former is not near as interesting as it may sound.

Yeah, it’s true. I have an eating disorder. When I tell most people, they’re like “which one?” as if it’s that simple. Truth be told, I have neither one. Of those, anyway. What I am is an under-eater.
This is a bit of a simplistic definition, but just as overeaters over eat, well…you get the picture. The comments that always bother me are the people who think this is some kind of manic weight loss technique. It’s not. Do you think overeaters want to be fat? I guess I couldn’t really say, but I can assure you that it’s not very exciting for me for all of my jeans to be baggy in the ass while my hip bones would be more likely than my boobs to fill out my already not-so-substantial bras.

The closest thing I can really equate it to that people seem to readily understand is alcoholism. It’s not something you can contract or catch, it’s not even exactly tangible. It is a physical manifestation of a mental recession. Or maybe a mental overload. Maybe both. On me, it makes my ribs do grotesque things and makes my hips more likely to pop out of socket when I’m having sex. I’m glad it didn’t make a noise, as it often does—my hip, that is. It is both loud, and usually scary for the other participant, and regardless it is very, very painful the next day.

Like alcoholism, it is a behavior you can commit to changing, which I have many times over the years. Unfortunately the other similarity is that you always retain both a mental and a physical memory of what it’s like to be caught in the throws of a relapse.

The first day seems like no big deal. You can convince yourself you forgot to eat, that you’re just stressed, that your stomach hurts and you don’t have much of an appetite, that’s all. The second day, you begin to remember. Everything you are remembers, from your head to your hips, and your stomach easily reverts back to the way it used to act when you never filled it, your tongue has no want or need to taste anything save beer and coffee. Maybe whiskey. The third day is the best day—you can suddenly think very clearly, things like logic and lists and plans are very easy for you on the third day. This is likely from the incredible nights sleep you got the day before, as not eating leaves you completely physically exhausted. This is the day that makes us do it, and when times are such that we can’t wrap our heads around it, we starve ourselves for this one day where everything makes sense.

The fourth day, you just feel incredibly sick, whether or not you’ve finally eaten.

The point is that I feel out of control now that I've realized that I'm in love with you--so unfortunately this has been the recourse.

It's not really about whether or not it is requited, but rather I am proud of myself just for the simple act of being capable of something I thought I was too jaded and irresponsible to feel.

I am in love with you.

Wow. I love being able to say that--and whatever weight I am, I welcome being out of control if this is the payoff.

I don’t know who exactly you’ve deemed I am, but trust me when I say that even the most jaded of us, the most ridiculous, the sluttiest and most seemingly flighty still have our convictions. I’m not kidding or joking, and I’m not just some siren who’s song you can’t seem to escape like you’ve dubbed me—I’m just me, and I have words to say that I wont let you take from me again.

Regardless of what you feel in rerturn, I'm happy with how much I love you. I'm settled in the feeling that this is an emotion I'm capable of. I'm happy with what I will be handed.

You can have me if you want me, but believe me when I say that I can never let you just fuck me. Not like that. Not ever again.

Listen, I will never dissuade you from having the feeling you have. You are entitled to them just as I am to mine--but I want things for myself, things that I may not deserve. But regardless, I will fight for them until the day I deem them not worthy of fighting for.

All my love,

1 comment:

disestablishingpuritanism said...

I think I'll help myself out to propping my ass on one of your stools. Travelling down the blogosphere superhighway, I came across your blog. Good stuff. Our libidos do get the best of us or as intellect, atheist, and rhetorical pugilist Christopher Hitchens said, "Our prefrontal lobes are too small and adrenal glands too large." As a species, we give ourselves too much credit. We kill off more of our own than any other species and our survival adaptability is very poor to others.

All of my family lives in Nebraska and I read where you fucked a band member from that state. Please tell me it wasn't one from Maroon 5 or 311. It's either San Fransisco or Boston for me this time next year. I'm leaning towards Boston. Love my New England sports teams. Take care.