Way back in 2007, I had this disastrous long distance “fling” (if you can call it that) with this Dutch guy I met in an Irish bar in town. I was drunk, and we went back to his hotel and I fucked him – again without a condom. He had just broken up with a long-term girlfriend, so he was certainly not looking for anything serious. If this wasn’t ridiculous enough, the guy lived in fucking Oman. Yes, Oman. In the Middle East. I do not live in the Middle East. I live in the US of A.
After our one-night stand, he went back to Oman, but we had hours and hours and hours of intense, soul-bearing phone conversations. For a couple of months my body was physically in the US, but my head and my heart were far away on a sandy beach on the Arabian Sea. He was involved in some capacity in the oil business, so he had shit loads of money. He was tall, handsome, blond, rich and charming – with the emotional maturity of a fifteen-year-old boy. He dazzled me by taking me skiing in the Swiss Alps for five days, and I was supposed to be going to see him in Oman.
I never did get to visit him in the Middle East. Before I could, some young Dutch girl he had fucked a few months earlier at a wedding came to visit him instead. The trip was planned before he met me, so it would have been rude of him to cancel. Plus, I had no right to ask him not to fuck her (hell, we lived in different countries…thousands of miles apart…he wasn’t my boyfriend). But, oh….those intense, deeply romantic long-distance conversations…He promised not to fuck her, but, well…all of a sudden his phone was switched off for days. No way to contact him. You can guess what he was doing. When he finally was contactable, I did my usual verbally abusive thing, and I cut off all contact with him. I googled him once. I think he’s living in Jordan now.
With the benefit of hindsight, I can of course now say to myself, “What the hell was I doing getting involved with a guy in Oman?!”, especially one who was emotionally unavailable. I went through a very dark period after I cut off all contact with him. It was clear to me that I was very, very unhealthy, and had incredibly poor boundaries. I pulled out my old books on Sex and Love Addiction, and I might even have attended some Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous meetings.
I never wanted to go through the same thing again with a man but….slowly and surely, after the initial pain had worn off, the impetus to change and get better disappeared. I didn’t have any man in my life for a while, and I wasn’t “acting out”, so I thought I was cured.
And, then…a year later, I met MM and he actually liked me. We had sex on our first date (um, again, without a condom…are you seeing a pattern here?) but he didn’t judge me. He liked me. He actually fucking liked me. And then he loved me. And I tried to love him back, but somehow I couldn’t. I’m so commitment phobic and afraid of real, genuine intimacy that I didn’t know how. And I treated him like fucking shit, verbally abused him, ruined his self-esteem, and just generally crushed him.
And now? I was supposed to see RG last night but, curiously, he said I couldn’t stay over. I smelled a rat, as he usually couldn’t wait to have me stay over and have sex. His uncle who has mild Asperger’s was visiting, so I thought at first that he was perhaps uncomfortable with having a girl there while a family member was present. But when I asked why I couldn’t stay over, he said he had to get up early in the morning to pick up a “friend” from the airport. I was now smelling an even bigger, practically man-sized rat. I let it go, thought I was just being paranoid, but, well, the above “Dutch Man in Oman” experience taught me that the “friend” at the airport usually has a vagina. Sure enough, I was right. RG fessed up when I confronted him with my suspicions.
How fucking stupid am I? I knew that he wasn’t available for a relationship but he seemed so nice. He was tender and sweet. I knew he would probably fuck other girls (a thought I tried to keep at the back of mind) but I told myself I didn’t care. Hell, I was just out of a relationship myself, so I imagined us having this wild and free, and terribly, terribly modern open relationship or some such bullshit. I convinced myself that he just needed to fuck around for a few months “to get it out of his system”, but I was sure that, after that, we would both fall hopelessly in love. He would soon realize that I was the one and only! Oh yes! And he would go into rehab for his massive alcohol problem! Oh yes! And we would be so happy together! Oh yes!
The reality is that he wanted to bang me on Thursday night, and then spend the next three nights fucking his “friend”. I’m not quite sure how he thought he was going to get away with that one. I mean, we’ve seen each other quite a bit since we met, and so he actually thought I wouldn’t notice that he was AWOL all weekend? I suspect that “thinking” is not something his booze-addled brain does much of. I suspect that he wanted to have his cake and eat it, too. He wanted me to be a quasi-girlfriend who came round a few nights a week for sex, but he didn’t want all the inconvenient parts that come with having a real girlfriend…like actually giving a shit about the person, going on dates with them, making them part of his life.
This was a dude I fucked every single time without a condom. This was a dude I let come in my mouth twice. And I swallow, baby. I don’t spit. I feel cheap. I feel dirty. I feel used. I feel absolutely fucking disgusted with myself.
After the “friend at the airport” revelation, I managed to hold onto my dignity and tell him that we shouldn’t see each other again. Then a guy friend of mine, who knew what had just happened and wanted to cheer me up, called me and we went out for a drink at the local bar where I had met RG a couple of months ago. I couldn’t let go. I hoped to see him there. He wasn’t there, but he texted me, asking if I wanted to talk about it. I ended up going round to his place after the the bar shut. I walked in, and the motherfucker had this big fucking smile on his drunk face which clearly said “Yup, I own that bitch”. When I expressed my disappointment about his having lied to me about Ms. Airport Girl he told me had always been honest with me, and had treated me well. He had clearly missed the memo which stated that withholding information which lets other people see the full picture more clearly is tantamount to lying. Of course, a normal healthy woman would have seen the full picture without having Ms. Airport Girl thrown in her face, but well…
I only had about three shreds of self-respect left after going round to RG’s house last night even though I knew about Ms. Airport Girl. I couldn’t have sent out a bigger message saying “I have absolutely no self-respect”. I don’t know why I went …I guess to convince myself that I hadn’t just been played, that he did maybe have some real feelings for me after all.
I was determined not to fuck him, and I didn’t all night long, but after spending the whole night desperately trying to get some admission out of him that he cared for me on some level (hellllloooooooo?! Girl, you’d known him for two weeks. Two weeks!) I felt hopeless and desperate, so I shagged him anyway. RG was relatively sober at that point, and I noticed – as I’d noticed before – that sobriety made him completely emotionally distant. There was a brick wall between us. I tried to tell him that he had hurt me (helllllloooo again! You’d only known him for two weeks) but he did his usual act of responding to all uncomfortable situations with a joke.
I met RG the week before MM and I broke up. I was wasted in the local bar, and we had been flirting all the time. I was wearing a skirt, and eventually I moved his hand between my legs, under my knickers…and, well,you can imagine what we did. Right in the bar. It was incredibly arousing, and I actually went home and had sex with MM for the first time in ages (that’s how I justified what I’d just done. I thought “Well, it improved my sex life with my husband!”). The next morning, though, I woke up with an awful hangover and had a “What the fuck did I just do” moment. The Sex and Love Addict books got cracked open again for a couple of hours. But eventually I told myself that, well, I’m just a modern woman who should be able to get her rocks off whenever and with whomever she wants.
Through my drunken haze, I somehow realized, though, that to RG I was just some slut who lets random guys finger her in a bar. When I told him last night that I was upset, he made some disparaging comment about how I couldn’t really expect anything after the way our “relationship” had started.
I think that, deep down, I’m a beautiful person.My heart and soul are filled with so much love. I have so much love to give, and I need to receive a lot, too. And, yet, time and time again, I cast my pearls before swine. And these men…they have no fucking idea what they do to women like me. It’s all fun and games. In our text message exchange last night, after I found out about Ms. Airport Girl, RG actually thanked me for the two weeks of “fun” we had. Fun. Really? Fun?
Why do I do this to myself? For most people, this would be their rock bottom. When I was asking RG about his alcoholism last night, I told him that he didn’t seem willing to enter rehab because he obviously hadn’t reached rockbottom. He then asked me what my rockbottom was. As I lay there, naked, beside him, I thought to myself “Oh my God. It’s this. It’s fucking this. I have reached the point of no return. I have let myself be used and abused so many times, and I can’t take it anymore”.
But the sad thing is that it’s not my rockbottom. Sometimes I wonder if I have some kind of PTSD because I forget about the pain and shit that happens to me. I’ve read that people with PTSD have trouble with their memory, probably because they want to block out the trauma they experienced. When I was with MM, he actually punched me in the head once, and I forgot about it completely until he somehow mentioned it years later. How can you forget somebody punching you in the head? We would have these huge physical arguments, and afterwards all the details were hazy. I couldn’t remember and, then, I would just bury whatever I could remember and go about my day like nothing had ever happened.
Right now, I feel so fucking slutty, and so fucking disrespected. I want to get help. In fact, I’m about to leave for therapy, but how soon before I forget all this pain? How soon before I find myself fucking some asshole guy who doesn’t give a fuck about me. All these precious things inside of me, and they never notice.
Even worse, I told RG that I have a blog, and that I’d written about him. This blog is anonymous but I realized that if he’s curious enough he could very easily find it by doing a google search with some of the info I mentioned. I did this, and this blog popped up straight away. I was horrified. I thought about making the blog private but, well, he’s already had my body; he might as well have my mind, too. Take it. Do what you want with it.
If you’re reading this, RG, I want you to know that I did this to my fucking self. I know it. I chose you when I should have known better. But please tell me one thing… How can you go through life hurting women and just taking what you can get? Do you ever stop to think that women are human beings? Do you ever feel bad, even if just for a moment? If you sobered up for just one second, maybe you would realize the harm you do. All those girls you fucked in college, the ones you told me you never called back…don’t you think you hurt them? Don’t you think that what you did chips away at a woman’s trust in men ? I’ve been that girl. I still am. And I can tell you that it does hurt. You can tell yourself that we’re just sluts who deserved what we got…but I still don’t get it. How can you set out to use a person out of pure selfishness and self-interest?
I do it to myself. Will I ever learn to stop? What will it take to make me? Will I just get to a point where I fucking kill myself because I can’t take anymore of this pain?