Pietas & Gravitas
He can taste hurt in my voice. His deep Texan drawl continues to slip poison into my self esteem.
“This will probably be the last time. It’s nothing about you personally. I just haven’t done this in a while.”
“That’s all right. It’s not like I’m your boyfriend.” This was my attempt at a counter.
“How long has it been?”
“Couple years.” He pulls his underwear back on. Then his pants. Buttons his shirt back up until I can’t believe he’s the same boy who came to my parents’ place at 10 p.m. on a school night to get fucked.
“And then you got a boyfriend.”
“Does he know?”
“Nope. Planning on keeping it that way, too.” This comment is directed at me because I’ve got his cell number. He told me, when we started texting, never to text him during the day. His boyfriend might see. I always had to e-mail him to talk dirty if it was during business hours. Everything after 8 p.m. could go to his cell phone. I imagine he’d delete each text conversation we had when he got off the night shift. Insurance.
Funny thing is that there are plenty of men who actually want to be with me. The same men don’t lie to their non-existant boyfriends and come to my house after everyone’s supposed to be asleep so we can fuck on the third story of this empty house.
Why do I want this one? Why was I so upset when he made me turn every lamp off, put the screen saver on, and undress myself? I don’t need to be desirable to this man beyond the parameters of my bedroom. I don’t need him to stay the night and bake lemon poppyseed muffins. It would be a pretty grand fucking gesture, but I don’t need it.
Maybe I’m upset because he’s going to work the night shift and then go back home to his boyfriend––who he’s having “trouble” with––and live a life where he can at least know someone’s there for him.
I’m probably also upset because I had to finish myself. Without his help. Or his acknowledgment. And when I asked him, he told me he was going to be late.
“Let’s get you out of here.” I whip on boxers and a t-shirt so I can bring him down three flights of stairs and out the front door, silently.
“Thanks.” His boots leave the only reminder that he was ever here.
“Sure.” I shut the front door and swear never again, only to check my OkCupid as soon as I get upstairs.