I was lying there naked in his bed, freezing cold, mouthing to myself in the darkness: ‘How did I get here?’
I’m not sure who I was more angry at, him or myself.
I’d let it get to this point. I’d decided to overlook all the warning signs and wish for something I knew I wouldn’t get.
We’d met at a friend’s birthday one night. It was dark, we were both single, it was somewhat inevitable before we ever arrived.
At first, I’m not even sure I liked him that much.
He was tall and good looking. He wasn’t exceptionally interesting. But he was someone who girls liked, and for some reason, there was something magnetic about that.
I spent the night with him, talking about nothing in particular, and eventually he asked me back to his house.
Sometimes when you’re lonely, you just do things to feel something. I think that’s how I can explain that night.
We had sex. It’s difficult to determine whether it was exceptional or abominable, because nothing about it was real. I wasn’t there, really. I was watching myself from above, trying to make the right sounds, imitating the person I imagined he would want to sleep with.
It should have ended there. It was clear he wasn’t particularly interested in me, but part of me believed that sex would magically breed the intimacy I actually wanted.