Sex and somehow still Chevy

I wonder if I’ve ever really liked sex. Sometimes afterward, I just feel gross. Maybe that’s not the word, exactly… I’m just over it when it’s over. I feel like I drag myself into it when it happens And not just because I feel fat - like I just don’t get much satisfaction out of the physical act. Even when I have enjoyed sex in my life, it was because of the psychological game. I made it my goal to make the person fall in love with me. Sex was not enough - I wanted power. I wanted the other person to worship me and my body. I wanted to never hear “no,” and I never did. I always got what I wanted when it got to that point. And everyone I cut it off with or made emotional always had an emotional reaction to me.

And now there is none of the game element to it in my life. I enjoy sex ok. It’s fine, but it’s not something that I feel like I even need. I could go months without and be ok. Orgasms aren’t worth that much to me. 

Subject change abruptly.

I was thinking about Chevy earlier. About that day that I pushed him into the walk in to yell at him, and the initial smirky look on his face would indicate that he thought I was pushing him in there for another reason… until I started talking. I still can’t believe that we never even kissed. We should have. I should have just gone for it like I did with every other boy I ever kissed. I’ve initiated it the most. With good results. Maybe it was a lack of experience that made me feel like I couldn’t. Maybe I thought he would reject it. I just wish he would have kissed me… 

I don’t know why he didn’t save me. He could have. I wanted him to. I wanted to hear, “don’t be with this guy; be with me. I want you.” But he never said it. Everyone else said he felt that way- that it was obvious. But then he should have told me. I would have been with him. It may have killed me, but I would have burned out in a blaze of glory with a heart on fire for him. I loved him. I probably still do.

It’s so sad that 15 years later I still think about him. I tear up when I do for too long. I wish I had been worth enough for him to take whatever perceived risk there would have been. I wish I could talk to him once more in life. I wish I could ask him what made him hesitate. Was it me, or something within him? Did he actually love me like everyone said? Why did he respond once on that warm summer evening in 2012 and then never again? Why wouldn’t he let me in then? Why didn’t he ever tell me how he felt about me? 

I think he thought I was stronger than I was. I think he didn’t understand that I wasn’t doing what I wanted to do. He thought I would hurt him by saying no. He thought if I wanted to leave, I would. He didn’t understand that I couldn’t. How could he? I didn’t even understand that I couldn’t or that I wanted to.

I would give anything for the universe to give me one day with him again. Not in a life-changing-forever way; I just wish I could bump into him in a grocery store, swap numbers, get coffee once, talk about old days, and then go our separate ways. 

I think I’m actually quite lucky that my husband did rescue me. He didn’t hesitate. He sized things up and decided to risk it. He said the things. They’re very similar in a lot of ways, Chevy and my husband, and I wonder what made the actual difference. 

I also wonder why I couldn’t save myself, and why I never seem to be able to do that. I feel helpless when it comes to taking care of me. I’m bad to me.