Second Chance Idol - Hungry
Plaid mini-skirt. Check. White knee-high socks. Check. I answered the door with a devious grin. I couldn’t wait until he saw me decked out in my costume. His ultimate fantasy. It was his birthday, and my roommate was away. Perfect time to play.
Or so I thought.
He swooped into my apartment, hardly a glance in my direction. “I need to finish some work really quickly.”
“Oh, okay,” I said, trying not to act to disheartened by his reaction. “No problem.”
I sat beside him, playing with my pigtail braids, waiting for him to finish his work.
When he did, he looked at me. Finally.
“You should change so we can grab something for dinner.”
Months later, same deal. No roommate. We had the place to ourselves and I put on a pretty dress with heels and thigh highs. His weakness, or so I was told over and over again.
This time it was, “It’s chilly, you should put some more clothes on.”
I was twenty-eight and beautiful. No, I didn’t know I was beautiful at the time, but looking back, I was gorgeous. I was stared at when I walked down the street, but my own boyfriend wouldn’t even look at me.
I’d shopped for lingerie for weeks, accumulating more than I’d ever need for one night. But I couldn’t decide. Red bra and matching panties? Black and white teeny skirt and bra ensemble? Lacy blue corset that hugged my tiny waist, while letting my double D's overflow from the top?
I couldn’t choose. I brought them all, choosing to wear the red bra set under my ordinary clothes.
I booked us a very nice room, away from roommates. No more excuses. We’d have a night to ourselves with a giant bed and views of San Diego. Our first getaway as a couple.
I told him, “I’m going to change into something more comfortable.” Cliche, I know, but I thought it was cute.
I undressed, simply choosing to walk out in my current matching lingerie set. When I stepped out of the bathroom, I was met with snoring and nothing more.
It’ll be easier when we live together, I said. We only see each other once a week. I have a roommate. He’s tired. He’s stressed. Once we live together, we’ll have more opportunities.
Little did I know, we’d have less.
“I feel like you don’t want to have sex with me,” I asked.
“Of course I do!” He’d reply. “You just need to come on to me sometimes.”
I kissed him, running a hand down south. He grabbed it and yanked it away, hurting my wrist and maintaining a death grip on it while glaring at me.
“I didn’t mean right now.”
Months went by. First, it was every three months. Then every six. Each time, only after a fight where I’d cry, asking him if he was even attracted to me. He’d give in that night but just lie there, acting like he was bored. I’d ask him over and over again, “Are sure you want to do this?”
“I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t want to,” he scoffed. But his actions said otherwise.
I stopped trying. I stopped asking.
I stopped caring.
I’d slip away to the bathroom, lying on the floor with my body bent in an uncomfortable position between the toilet and bathtub. A toy satisfied the urges for at least a few hours. I called it “clearing my head” since I couldn’t focus on my work - writing erotica, ironically enough - without some relief.
A year went by. Then two. He didn’t even touch me unless he had to. I joked once about him touching my boobs, and he couldn’t do it. I was his girlfriend and he couldn’t even touch me sensually. I got arm pats instead.
Maybe it wouldn’t have hurt so much if I didn’t follow him online. He talked about wanting women to send him boob pictures, while I sat beside him, more than willing to share mine with him.
But he didn’t want mine.
I cried myself to sleep every night for the next two years. Silently. Because if he knew I was upset, he’d get upset. He’d find some way to make it my fault or bring up a past wrong of mine that had nothing to do with the situation so he’d be the victim. Which meant comforting him instead.
But I never got the comfort I needed. I never could get him to admit the truth - that he didn't want me.
He’d tell me again, “Come on to me. Why do I have to put in all the work?” even though he didn't put in any work.
So I did. Oh lord, I did. I’d lay in bed next to him, naked. Kissing his chest, running my hands over his bare flesh while whispering, “I’m so horny for you.”
He’d get annoyed at me. So I’d stop. And he’d tell me again that I never come on to him. I’d do it again. And again. Night after night.
But the answer was always the same - "No." And I was expected to just accept it. The constant rejection. The feeling of being nothing more than a roommate.
I used to wear cute dresses and makeup and curled my hair just right. But why bother? I wasn’t attractive, no one wanted me.
I couldn’t even take care of my own needs anymore without crying and feeling pathetic.
Why are you doing this? No one will ever want you. He’ll never want you. You don’t deserve sex. You’re just torturing yourself. Stop. Please, just stop.
I took antidepressants, hoping to kill my libido. Maybe without that pesky sex drive, we could be happy.
It didn’t work.
He continued telling women online how beautiful they were, talking about how celebrities were his dream girls. Making it seem like he enjoyed sex, even though it had been four years since we'd had sex.
"Do you think I'm beautiful?" I asked.
"Of course."
"Then why don't you ever tell me? You tell other women they're beautiful, but not me."
"I told you a few months ago, and you didn't seem to believe me."
A few months ago.
At some point, I packed all my lingerie away in the garage. Thongs, thigh highs, bras that weren’t practical - all gone. Why keep the reminder? But a family member gave me a bra that didn’t fit them. A sexy black one with straps I couldn’t even figure out.
It had been years since I put on anything like that, but I found it in my drawer one day and decided, “Why not?”
And I felt beautiful. I was sexy. A goddess. I couldn’t stop looking at myself in the mirror, amazed at how perfect my breasts looked.
Because I’m a glutton for punishment, I decided to try one last time. I laid on the bed, posing seductively right as he came in from walking the dog.
He walked into the bathroom. Since I wasn’t sure he saw me, I stood up and struck a sexy pose. When he came out, I asked, “How do I look?”
“You look nice.” He walked out of the room without even a second glance.
Used to being rejected, I took a few photos. I took them for me. Because I looked hot.
I bought more lingerie after that. Cheap stuff from online. I posed. I took photos. I felt sexy and powerful and gorgeous.
I did it for me.
I stopped asking. I stopped trying.
I stopped caring.
After years of begging and pleading and wanting him to want me, the day finally came where he asked me the fateful question.
Did I want to be with him?
The answer was easy.
"No."