Last night I invited you over and I lit three Virgin Mary candles. I put on my oversized jeans from Barcelona and the pink crop top I got for Christmas. I even wore a little bit of this dark sparkly eyeshadow some lady at the make up store pressured me to buy. I smudged it on with my finger, drank too much wine and waited for you. For some God forsaken reason Taylor Swift's new album was on. Some of that shit is good. I was listening to "Don't Blame Me" and it gave me the courage to break up with you. If you can even break up with someone who is not your boyfriend but more of your exclusive french lover.
My break up was inspired by many things. It's been a year and I still don't know your friends or family and we still don't have a label. I've written extensively on it and for the most part can live without the label. But there are other factors. Like you not calling me during Christmas, or messaging me on New Years Eve. And then not even realising why I would be pissed about that. So a lot of thinking and a little bit of wine and some black eye shadow gave me the courage to tell you I'm done.
I knew when I opened the door and you saw me, my hair a little blonder, skin a little tanner from my recent trip to California, you were gonna think of nothing but the amazing sex we were gonna have. But I'm sure you also sensed something was wrong because daddy, I didn't kiss you. But I said "come in" and led you to the middle of my Virgin Mary candle circle.
I told you a story. Of last May when we were at the castle. When you said we should be open for summer, and you broke my heart. Then I told you about my three summer lovers. I had previously said I didn't sleep with anyone over the summer. So maybe I told you to push you away, or to lead in to the break up, or to make you know that I am not dependent on you, or just to stop lying. You were hurt by this confession. I know. And then I told you our whole situation is hard for me. And I said let's call it, "Leave." I can't believe I said this because you've given me no reason to think you are the kind of guy that would stay and beg. I turned away from you. Waiting for you to leave, as I genuinely thought you would.
You said something like, "Are you gonna look at me?" And it took all my strength, to remove the glue on my body that was holding me to the pink carpet, and look at you. You asked if you should leave, I said I don't know. And somehow we got closer. I was still telling you I wanted to end it, and you still weren't telling me I was the love of your life and you'll do anything to keep me. And this is exactly why I love you. Nothing about us feels pathetic.
And then I got on top of you. It wasn't that I wanted to hold on to you. It wasn't that I was scared of losing you. It wasn't that I wanted to end the fight and make you forget how vulnerable I was. I've had that kind of sex before. The "don't leave me remember I have a vagina sex." No, I got on top of you because I looked at you for too long and all of a sudden nothing mattered. I only wanted to be in bed with you. It was slightly awkward (and at the same time not awkward at all) because in the midst of telling you you don't make me happy you probably weren't ready for me to straddle you.
But I did. And you held me. And slowly started touching me. And our words turned into sex. The smoothest transition I've ever witnessed, so much so I can't even remember how one thing led to another. But you picked me up and threw me on the bed. You got on top and your mouth was so soft and perfect. It was the kiss I wanted to give you since I opened the door but I didn't because I hated you then.
And you're kissing me so delicately all over. And putting your hand over my jeans, taking them off. Ever so perfectly putting your lips over my cream lace panties. Taking them off. Tongue on my rose as you call it. Licking me, loving me. Candles still burning.
My lace curtains probably weren't hiding this whole affair but that wasn't on my mind. Nothing but you, and how badly I wanted you. It's incredible to me, that it's been a year and the sex only gets better. Many people probably think well of course. But movies and tv and stereotypes have told me sex with one person for a long time gets boring. And I'm 22 and a year is a long time. But with you it's delicious. I make love with you because I want to. I really want to. It's irresistible.
After we came on/in each other, you said you were hungry. You said you could go get something and bring it back, I looked so comfortable in bed. Insecure/scarred/fucked up me thought you were gonna leave and never come back. I mean I did just tell you I fucked three other people and lied to you about it. And the worst/best part about it is you really weren't even mad or jealous. You were hurt I didn't tell you. There was no slut-shaming or judgement or interrogation, just a It hurts more that you didn't tell me. So you went to get a pizza and you left your Patagonia hat and Kindle so I would know you were coming back. You brought back a pizza and we ate it in my bed sharing pizza kisses every once in awhile. You then started touching my pussy again. You made me come with your fingers. And then I wanted to lick you. So I went down and kissed all around before licking and sucking you. You stopped me because you wanted to be inside. You pulled me on top of you, you love when I'm on top of you.
Then we put Harry Potter on. I fell asleep immediately. I woke up to you eating me from behind. Sex again. Naked again. Lace curtains. Morning kisses. You, me, a messed up bed. Me not remembering why I hated you, thinking I love everything about you.
So I tried to break up with you, we had break up sex, and then make up sex and then more make up sex. If I needed to leave you I would, and if you needed to leave me you would. But Tuesday we are going away together. So for now, you're still my French lover. And I'm still praying you never find my blog.