I came to the realization too late that we’re all alone. Always. It doesn’t matter how many people you do or don’t surround yourself with. And no matter how many men I fucked, in my mind, with words, over the phone, or in person, it never changed how alone I was – am – in the moment I close my eyes, in the moment I need and there is no one there.
I argued with myself that I simply needed too much. One man could not fulfill it, so I added a second. It was good for a time, but then he started to not be there, so I added a third. With each new addition, there was less emotional attachment. As though it were okay as long as I didn’t let it become emotional. It was a need. An itch. I scratched it.
But it always comes in, doesn’t it? It always becomes emotional, tender, when he makes you come, and gives you that delicious feeling of being all his, of your pleasure being due to him, all those fucking endorphins. Pheromones. Serotonin. Those chemicals that make you think this one, this one will be here, like this, forever.
Until he’s not. But it’s a high, right? I always go looking for the next one. Not consciously. I can’t help it. I want to feel loved, important, treasured. I want to feel beautiful.
Stella – (a working title)