I am going to fucking kill myself. Wait no nevermind I’m fine. Last night I had sex in the most 2009 way possible (I was wearing tube socks). It was with an old flame that I had met five months prior. He was my second rebound after my devastating break up with my musician boyfriend. It’s hard to get over someone that keeps getting recommended to you on Spotify.
Now I walk into the night swinging my hips like an alley cat. I cry out for the boys and they come running. I do not eat, I do not sleep, I barely breathe. I get a cold once a month. I get fleas twice a month. I twirl under disco lights. Sometimes when I think about the future I only see darkness. I lift my arms up to the disco heaven lights. Sometimes it reaches back to me. I twirl around the dance floor. I keep twirling, twirling and twirling and every time I think I am about to fall, someone grabs me and takes me home.
Last night, Ben fell for my old charm and he took me in for the night.
“This feels so porn coded,” I laughed while laying in just my tube socks, “should we roleplay?”
“Sure,” he said hovering his body over mine.
“Oh I’m the cheer captain and I can’t believe I’m about to fuck….” I looked at him up and down, “the school janitor”
“What the fuck?” he said.
“You’re the one wearing Carhartt!” I responded defensively.
He proceed to fuck me in a way that prevented me from telling anymore jokes. After sex, the cuddling is usually sweet and tender. Part of me wonders if that’s the trade off. I remember what it is like to be in love and I am so good at being in love. The kisses on the cheek in the morning and running my hands through his hair. I am better at being in love than I am at being a person.
While laying there in our sweet sweat, mimicking love I realized that I considered us more like longtime old pals than passionate lovers. Like we were two young boys who once shared a homosexual experience at summer camp and went on to marry other women and never speak of it again. But one day I call him on the phone 20 years later and it’s the same as old times. “How the hell are you David…You haven’t changed a bit Robert…” I told Ben all of this and he really did not like it. He dropped me off. The car ride was silent.
Erin is a writer based in Los Angeles. She co-hosts a monthly reading series in Los Angeles called Car Crash Collective. Her work can be found in Forever Magazine and Spectra Poets. Twitter: @blatherwhick , Instagram: @Suburban_cutie_
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