This post is another chronic case of me over-sharing. Because this is what I do. It doesn’t bother me, but I know it makes other people uncomfortable. You have the right to look away.
We’ll address the whole “what on earth will my children think of their mother question” another day.
And… this all happened a week or so back now. Apart from the stinging shame of shoulda-known-better, I’m over it. For that reason, comments are on… but please don’t be too sympathetic, it just may make me cry.
No names have been used, but if they were, they would have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent.
I told you it was dangerous.
I don’t think I can tell you, even though I speak of everything here. Only because it feels dripped with shame and stupidity.
So I’ll allow you to form the picture for yourselves.
A good looking man, who I described before. So obviously used to women who fall all over themselves for him.
A very vulnerable woman, who forgets her own vulnerability and pretends she’s strong enough to play with fire without getting burnt.
Without pushing splinters of bone into the already bleeding, raw crevices in her heart.
He gets in her head. She’s stupid. He’s arrogant.
She thinks she’s too old, too smart, to cynical to be played.
“I’m not the kind of girl who f*cks on first dates.”
It says that on my profile.
“I’m not the type of girl who fucks on second dates, either.”
“Obviously… maybe I’m not the kind of guy who bothers to wait for a third date.”
Played. All my instincts are telling me I am being played, and he will not call again… I don’t listen. I go ahead and do what every other girl does in his presence, what I said I wouldn’t… submit.
And I try to pretend I don’t care, when I don’t hear from him.
I’m lieing to myself. I do.
Just a tiny bit of heartache, to poison the experience, to remind me- as if I needed it, ever- that this isn’t a game. This is life.