1) I kissed a girl properly.
2) I got a girlfriend.
3) I love her.
4) She loves me.
5) I lost my virginity.
6) Turns out I'm actually pretty good in bed.
Yay, life goals of the last decade achieved. And I am very, very, happy.
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If reading that made you happy, just hold onto that for a second. It is a happy thing to read, and I want people to know that I'm still definitely on a net positive.
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Trigger Warning: Teen Drama
I intended to write that blog yesterday. At the time it was all true, and much of it still is. I kinda wanted to just write the first half and let people be all happy for me for a while before I admitted the rest. Sometimes it's easier to take reality in small doses. But y'know, safe spaces and all that.
Ginny was a survivor. She's been beaten and coerced and abused by men she trusted, but she's still beautiful and principled and talented. She also has PTSD, trust issues and, as far as I'm concerned, low self-esteem. I say she doesn't value herself enough. She says she's just not valuable. She has good friends, some awful exes, and had spent her youth playing music and cruising for dumb guys to fuck. The scummier the better, she'd said. It meant they were less likely to care when she snuck out at 4am, less likely to call her again, and she didn't have to feel any guilt if she hurt their feelings. She liked to market herself as a sultry succubus who didn't need anyone, but in private she told me how she went chasing "countless" men so that when they held her she could pretend they cared about her, but she could leave them before she got attached enough that she could get hurt again. No point in hiding it from you guys; I met her on Tinder (dating site/app thing) where (though I didn't know it), she was looking for suitable guys.
Instead she got me.
I was up all-nighting an essay, she was up because her PTSD had left her a little shaken that night. She tossed a flirt my way, I responded just to be friendly, laughed it off and tried to strike up a conversation. Over the next couple of hours she realised I Wasn't Like Other Guys, while I found her sweet and likable. We both liked dancing, classic horror, Absofacto, Harvey Danger, the arts, the grotesque and grim. I joked that we could be Gomez and Morticia. She said she'd had that same thought. We "clicked". She told me how cruel her past had been, I said how lonely mine had.
We did very little but talk to each other for the next week. Things got very intense, very fast. We did the one thing people say you should never do, and fell in love through writing before we'd even met in person. Can you blame us? A desperately lonely young man and a young woman who'd never known comfort? Ginny had all but detached herself from the world emotionally; for her own protection, she said. When I realised she was falling for me, I leapt at the chance to reassure her. I could never hurt her, I said. I could never begrudge her for not trusting me, given her history. I could wait. She could relax. She wasn't doing anything wrong, and I'd never judge her for being careful.
Slowly, as we grew closer, the carefully compartmentalised parts of her inner self began to come out - her capacity for love, trust, attachment; to feel safe with another person. I asked if she was prepared to let herself be vulnerable if it meant we could be closer. She said she was. I was happy. I was helping. I could be good for her. I could care for her. I could keep her safe and make her happy. I was Frank Sinatra singing "For Once In My Life". Make someone happy was all I ever wanted to do. To be the light of someone's life.
I offered her a stay at mine; three days and two nights, and she accepted. We knew we were being reckless. But we were sure things would work. How could they not?
Two days ago, we finally met. She was shorter than she'd looked on Facebook. I was taller, apparently. I told her I loved her, she told me she loved me, we kissed and we walked home together. It felt so certain. It felt so safe. We walked, we talked, we made out, we made love, and enjoyed every second. But I couldn't help but notice how much of our relationship seemed... recursive. Every conversation seemed to use "I love you" as punctuation. I wanted to say it, and I liked hearing her say it, but it made the bond between us seem fragile. I asked her if, minus the physical contact and constant affirmation of how much we cared about each other, we'd still have enough of a relationship to be happy together; hobbies, common interests, that kind of thing. We talked and agreed that we did, and indeed half the conversations we had from then on ended with a sideways look and "... Yeah, we're gonna do alright. This can last."
There were still niggles, though. The way that though she made me feel warm and comfortable, she didn't make me jitter or stutter the way I was used to feeling around girls I liked. The way that when she was upset I'd hold her and just kind of stare over her shoulder, not knowing quite how to feel. The way I loved to touch her and get her off, feel her writhing in my arms, and yet when she touched me it seemed so dull - not boring, dull like a blunt knife; to touch what "muffled" is to sound. I couldn't climax, even when I briefly tried on my own in another room. I enjoyed her touch, being held, and yet she couldn't make my heart pound the way I could hers. She was used to taking the lead, she said, but whenever she tried with me she'd just giggle and say I'd "got to her". She was used to me taking the lead now. She'd built herself up as a strong-willed dominatrix, but in a couple of days I reduced her to a giggling schoolgirl. I smirked all the time, knowing that she loved me that much, that I'd melted her iron-clad heart. It felt good to be around her. She was fun to talk to. Her smile made me feel like I was worth something. Her body was a joy to play with. I loved her, I was sure of it.
Very early, perhaps the night we met, we had agreed that promises should never be broken. If there was any doubt, you could vow or swear but never
promise. Promise was Serious Word, that was never to be used lightly. Ginny said that I wasn't like the others. And I'm not - I could never beat her or rape her or keep her from what she really wanted.
But I then promised that I'd never hurt her.
I cared about her, unconditionally, the way that she'd been searching for. She was scared of men, scared of trusting them, scared of what they did, but I wore her down - not deliberately, I think, just by being myself and being what I wanted to be to her. I wanted her to trust me, I'd said, so that she could be safer, so that she could drop her defenses and stop trying to maintain her perfect composure all the time and just relax. So that she could be happier, because I was certain trusting, loving relationships was where happiness came from... but not until she was ready. But I did also want her to trust me because I wanted to feel worthy of that, and I think she desperately wanted to trust me even though she railed against it out of her conditioned fear of relationships.
So she did. The girl who'd been hurt so much, who'd rebuilt herself from scratch to keep herself safe, tore herself down again so that we could be together. She trusted me, felt safe with me, and loved me wholeheartedly.
Then I, the man who'd had her do that, turned around and told her that I didn't feel like I really loved her. I wasn't sure why, but I didn't.
I hurt her. I hurt her more deeply than she'd been hurt in years. I broke my promise. And I broke someone's heart.
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We were both very honest, thoughtful people; and we'd agreed that, for better or for worse, No Lies Ever. She never liked it when I sat brooding, so when I was staring out of the window last night, wondering why, when I cared for this girl so much, she didn't make my heart race the way love had when I was a teenager, I asked her what she thought. She crumpled a little. Then The Girl Who Never Cries started to cry. She said it meant I didn't love her. I said that couldn't be true, since I cared about her so much, thought about her so much, and enjoyed being with her so much.
We didn't argue. We discussed, like the pragmatists we were.
We covered a lot of possibilities. I was gay. I was stressed. I was tired. I was depressed and numb and just couldn't feel properly right now (I liked that one). I was more nervous about the relationship than I thought I was. I was uncomfortable with how much power I had over her. I was autistic (my sister's suggested this before). I'd just been interested in her sexually and got it all a bit mixed up (I hated that one). I'd got caught up in a certain kind of "rescuer" fantasy and the subsequent relationship wasn't as appealing as that fantasy had been. She didn't engage me enough intellectually. We just weren't right for each other. This was all new, and I just legitimately couldn't be expected to know how to feel about new things overnight. I was just overthinking it all, that kind of empty feeling hits everyone occasionally and it didn't really mean anything. We just hadn't known each other very long, all things considered, and there was some kind of delayed emotional response in the works. In my years of rejection and loneliness, I'd subconsciously set up blocks and barriers to stop myself from getting attached to people. I was a sociopath. I'd been more attached to the idea of being loved than I was to her as a person. I was a masochist who felt bad when they got what they wanted. I had a paradise complex and just felt empty and listless now that the one thing that I'd been constantly striving for had been achieved.
None of these things felt very satisfying. I said I should have just kept it to myself. She said it was good I'd brought it up early. I said this was all confusing and I didn't know what to do. She said that wasn't my fault. I said I still felt pretty awful about the situation.
So I just held her, and she cried for a long time. I cried too.
We just lay nose-to-nose and cried for a while, picking our words carefully and responding to each other after ten seconds or so. We kept a sense of humour, though. We just lay, spoke slowly and laughed and cried in the dark.
She said she wanted to cut off the tears like she'd learned to, I said I never wanted her to have to hide anything from me. She didn't trust me any more, but she still couldn't help feeling safe with me. She wanted to shut it down and try and be the succubus again but she couldn't. She said she wanted to break my heart and destroy me for breaking her open after she'd barred herself shut. I said I understood, and it wasn't unreasonable for her to feel like that. She said she knew what it felt like to be cared for, to love, to depend on someone, and she wasn't sure she could go back any more. I said I never wanted her to go back. I said I cared about her too much, that I never wanted her to throw herself at brutes just so she could pretend to be cherished, because I truly cherished her, I just wasn't sure in what way, and that she deserved a man like me, an honest, gentle man, but one less broken and awkward and brooding and confused by his own thoughts. She deserved better than me, and I never wanted her to have worse. If we couldn't work, she needed to hold onto the hope that it could with someone, the way I had when I was rejected over and over again. She said that she couldn't do that. She'd gambled enough, and kept losing. Love got her hurt, the way I was hurting her now, and she could never do it again. She had to give up, because it was the only way for her to be safe. She could never let anyone talk her out of her armour again. The best she could do was sex and make-believe. I said I wanted her to be happy, the way I'd made her happy back when I was so sure I loved her, and that another person could make her happy like that for the rest of her days, and all I wanted was for her to have that happiness because she deserved it so much after all she'd suffered. I wanted to love her so much, I said. I never wanted her to be in danger and it'd hurt every time I thought of her back in the loveless arms of a drunken stranger. I didn't want to let her go. I wanted to love her and be sure of it and for her to never have to live that cold and drifting life again. I said she was perfect for me and I didn't understand why things felt so hollow sometimes. She said that she was unlovable. I was driven by guilt, she said, constant guilt. I said I could love her, I just wanted to know how. She said that nothing can "make" you love someone. I said that I needed her to be loved and be happy. She said that she could never take these risks again. I said that, if nothing else, we needed to be sure, because she was too precious to lose over one stressful night that could turn out to be a brain tumour or a hormone imbalance or something that was nobody's fault. I wanted to try again, to get close slowly, naturally, know her properly and not push anything. She said if we did that she'd have to put the barriers up again - stop trusting me, feeling secure with me, and do her best to stop loving me. I said that was OK. I wanted what was best for her, I said. I knew she loved me and I didn't know how I felt and I didn't want to leave her, especially not on such a sour note, so we should just give it another shot, and try not to get so twisted up this time. She said we could do that, if I promised it would only be once. That I'd never get up her hopes and let her down again because she wasn't sure she could take it. I promised that it would be only once. It'd either work out or not, and when I made my choice, that was final. For now, we were just close friends, nothing more. She said OK.
We sat up and chatted like friends at a sleepover. It was nice. I was scared to say anything that sounded too affectionate because this girl I didn't love still meant so much to me and I was scared of pushing myself into strange territory where I didn't know how I felt again.
The night before, she'd slept in my arms and I'd felt loved and comfortable. This night, when our conversation ended, I asked her to promise that she wouldn't sneak out at 4am like she had with everyone else. She promised, turned over and slept at the other side of the bed with her back to me. I felt cold and alone and about as guilty as a person can feel.
This morning, we both woke up with our moods reset and were uncertain where we stood. We joked and laughed and teased each other, perhaps like old friends, or perhaps as a young couple should start. We talked about last night. I said I felt a lot more comfortable now that we were taking things more casually, but I still wasn't sure how I felt about her. We talked and, as I'd tried to avoid during the night before, something affectionate slipped out. Ginny felt the way it feels when someone that you love tweaks your heart, and started to cry. I said that turbulent relationships can still last, and that there was still so much value to me in us being together, we just had to try and relax because, truth be told, we'd only actually been together for a couple of days and there was still so, so much to understand about each other. I got closer, and One Thing Led To Another. We had sex, relaxed a bit, and agreed that just being friends wasn't an option right now. We were both strange, broken, anomalous people who'd got far too swept up in the dream that their troubles were at an end... but we were both still pretty rad people. We needed some Time Apart, then we'd try again. Sensibly. Safely.
We had lunch, teased and joked with each other as if nothing was wrong.
At 3pm I walked her to the station, still hand-in-hand, in limbo between being the boy who broke her heart, a trusted friend, a sweet and timid budding love interest, and just another "morning after" in the succubus's tragic career. We'd keep in touch, I said. She said I had to make those decisions now, now that she knew I could hurt her. She couldn't throw herself at me any more. She bought her ticket and I kissed her goodbye.
"I'll see you round," I said, "... And that's all I'll say".
She smiled, nodded, and went on her way. The "I love you, Ginny" in my throat sank back down. I'd wanted to say it, but I couldn't risk it unless I was sure. Because I didn't know if I had loved her, if I could love her, if I will love her - what was real and what was delusion, what sides of myself are madness and which are sincere. I still don't know. But I couldn't deny it was a relief to see her walk away.
Time apart.
I know I'll call her eventually. See how she's doing. I'll probably meet her somewhere. Have a day out. No nights. See how it feels to be around her. I still don't know what was wrong last time. I'd like to try again. She's a nice girl, and I know she'll love me if I'm willing to let her.
I just don't think it's something that I'm willing to do right now. I need to clear my head. Reflect at a natural pace. My "Life Goals" slate has suddenly been wiped clean, and I need to realign my sights and decide what I really want. I need time to pass. But I can't will that to happen. I need to move on, live out the days, the way the lonely always do.
Time apart.
Earlier, she'd asked me to promise that I wouldn't brood about the situation when she left. I promised. Yet I broke that promise as soon as she wasn't around to snap her fingers whenever I started to stare off into space. I'm breaking my promise now.
Some promises I'm just not ready to keep yet. But I know a way to help me stop thinking about something. Write until I can write no more. I've done my best, Ginny. I hope I can stop breaking this promise soon, just like my promise to not hurt you, whether that means being your friend or your lover or just letting you go back to the life you had before, even though that would hurt me so much.
Time apart.
When I got home, I saw her photo on my desk and quietly turned it over. I didn't want to see her face right then, for some reason. Sometimes you really do want to be alone.
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But sex(!), the act that I'd fretting over for years, went better than I could have dared to dream, under ideal circumstances. We loved each other. She gasped and giggled and praised my skillz while I did All The Right Things. Afterwards, she just lay on my chest and rested for a while. As a memory, a self-contained event, it was near-perfect. For two days, two beautiful days, I was beloved and sexy and fulfilled. It happened. It may have been a dream, but it was a tangible one. One I shared. It wasn't me getting my hopes up over nothing. It was Real. And nothing will ever change that.
It feels good, I think. It's only in the context of today that it seems bittersweet.
I always knew I'd make mistakes. I just thought I'd always be the one who got hurt when I made them. But hey, you have to allow an inexperienced youth a little naïveté.
