Fake Boyfriend; an open letter.
I think I've just wrapped up the first draft of the second chapter of "19". I'd really like your opinion on it sometime. Since, you were kind of there and all. Congrats again on your car. How's that working out for you? Busy, I'd imagine.
I think back on my life on a regular basis, and when I think about what made me happiest, there's always two people besides myself involved in the telling of the story. This is part of why I'm a writer in the first place. These are really interesting stories that I feel like others could benefit from.
There was the time I had the MFM threesome with Lee (my then husband) and Logan (our then boyfriend), which I've told you about before.
There was the time when I had a somewhat unsuccessful, or at least lopsided FMF threesome with My Mentor Matt and his Lovely Wife, Khym. Then I woke up the following morning and I opened my eyes to the sun rising out the window and there's Matt, all ruggedly unconventionally handsome and I'm so in love with him (in the context of this memory), and I'm in his arms. Then I roll over and oh-my-gods, there's this epically beautiful woman sleeping on the other side of me and I realize that it was the first time I slept between them. Then, I took a deep breath and a mental step back and remembered that I totally got to fuck this hot lady the night before while her husband, the aforementioned dude I'm all radically in love with, watched and rooted us on. And Khym opened her big green eyes and smiled at me coyly, saying, "Good morning, beautiful."
There was this other time at Matt & Khym's place when Lee and I had just started dating. There was a picture, taken by Khym of me and Lee and Matt. Matt's face isn't in the picture because of the way it was framed, but his body is displayed nicely except for his privates which were obscured by the back of my head. He held me there by a fist full of my bright red pixi-cut hair. and Lee's face was in the picture. He was all red and sweaty and his chest was bleeding because I'd slashed him with my were-nympho talons as I was wont to do back then. Lee was sitting in this big lounge chair in the living room with me teetering naked on his lap. It's actually slightly more tasteful than I make it sound, and pretty hard to recognize me as me, being as my face isn't exactly on-camera either. But I have a tattoo of a little cartoon penguin on my hip that gives my identity away pretty handily, even if you don't already know what I look like naked. So I guess all copies of this picture have been lost or destroyed by now, but I remember it both well and fondly. I wish I could send that picture to you.
Last, but by no means least, there was one morning around the time when Scott and I got engaged when we had spent the night at my mom's home in Hollister with Vidar (my son, who was only about a year and a half old then, if you're keeping tabs) sleeping in his collapsible crib in one corner of the room. V had woken up with the sun, but Scott and I were still very tired, so I was trying to get V to go back to sleep in my arms and he just wouldn't stop wiggling and kicking me, like little kids are often wont to do. So Scott reached over me and scooped up my son with one arm. He held Vidar close and kissed the top of his head and told him that his mommy was very tired and to please go back to sleep. Then Scott told V that he loved him and whaddaya know, it worked. The baby fell back asleep and this man who was not his biological father had done more for me in that instant than had the man who is in fact V's bio dad in the entire tumultuous time he'd been with me. This single act of kindness and parenting was what convinced me that he was the person I needed to spend the rest of my life with.
I treasure all of these things equally. I will to the day I die.
So why tell you any of this? I felt the need for a confidant, but I also wanted you specifically to hear these tales from my life story and gain a better understanding of me as a person from them.
You're not a bad person. You're not a bad fake-boyfriend either, as these things go. But as time goes on, it's much less the "Fake" part of the arrangement that bothers me as the term "friend" begins to rub me the wrong way. Because I try really hard to be a good friend to you, not just a series of kinky stories and potential holes to fill in various extraordinary ways. And consistently I don't get that same feeling of kinship from you. You've never been there for me when I really needed a friend. I can't pretend that doesn't smart, no matter how good your occasional reason or excuse.
When I was 19-20 you didn't care about any feelings I had for you or their misplaced reasoning. I honestly felt sometimes that you didn't think of me as a complete person, so I was forgettable and disposable in your world. I've tried overcoming this insecurity on my part in a variety of ways. Some things have yielded returns, others were less than workable. These things happen all the time. It's nobody's fault. I'm not mad at you, once again, just disappointed. I often enjoy being disappointed by you in this way. It makes me remember that you're not really my boyfriend and you never will be. Nothing I can do or say will ever change you. You won't ever love me and you really shouldn't anyway. I could just about fill the Grand Fucking Canyon with all the things you don't know about me. And, by that same token, I could make an incomplete list of all the shit you've done to fuck me over and demonstrate your absolute recklessness when it comes to your handling of personal relations using only myself as an example. Just recently:
-You promised to explain to me the long story behind your funny email address. I'm still waiting.
-You said you'd send me pictures of your daughter. This was a long time ago now, before we started really flirting and shit got a little weird, but still, it'd be nice to see you as more of a person and less of a fuck-toy.
-You claimed to have the time and enthusiasm to read my writing and lavish me with constant feedback and praise. I knew that one was unrealistic from the start, but it is my #1 favorite thing to talk about. Yes, my ego is both that big and that fragile, and yes, that means that I prefer writing to sex. Sometimes.
-You told me that you would be home all day and that we could talk when I was going through my emotional shit over my best friend ceasing to be that, and when I called you and left more than one sobbing voice mail, you either ignored it or forgot about it because you've never brought it up since or apologized for the miscommunication. Again, this is old news, but it hurt like hell at the time, when i genuinely was believing that I no longer had any friends at all.
-I've brought this one up before: you only respond to my emails when nude pics are attached, and even if there's other information in the same email, you only comment on the explicit content. I realize that this is a result of your precarious combination of high-stress and little-to-no free time and not a reflection of me or you or your personal feelings (or entire lack there of) about either. But it's still dehumanizing and makes me feel pressured to perform without much of a pay-off on my side. Which brings me to the last point I'll make tonight:
-You promised me a video that I'm beginning to think doesn't exist. :) Again, yes, I know you're crazy busy right now and juggling a lot of stressful and less-than-rewarding circumstances in hopes of a more long-term pay-off. I'm not going an all that dissimilar route in my own life. But wait, I did have one last point to make...
-You didn't tell me you were sorry that there was a death in my family. That's just bad manners. :p
It's entirely possible that you haven't gotten around to reading my last several emails, let alone answer them in the past few days. Life moves pretty fast sometimes and you've got to grab your opportunities while you can. But, I'm a girl god damn it. I need some kind of sign that things are okay, that you are interested in me for something slightly more than my body, because you can't actually have that. I'm not going to fuck you. I want to. I like the idea very much. But it's so not going to happen. Especially not at this rate. And that's becoming more upsetting and confusing for me as time wears on.
I think back on my life on a regular basis, and when I think about what made me happiest, there's always two people besides myself involved in the telling of the story. This is part of why I'm a writer in the first place. These are really interesting stories that I feel like others could benefit from.
There was the time I had the MFM threesome with Lee (my then husband) and Logan (our then boyfriend), which I've told you about before.
There was the time when I had a somewhat unsuccessful, or at least lopsided FMF threesome with My Mentor Matt and his Lovely Wife, Khym. Then I woke up the following morning and I opened my eyes to the sun rising out the window and there's Matt, all ruggedly unconventionally handsome and I'm so in love with him (in the context of this memory), and I'm in his arms. Then I roll over and oh-my-gods, there's this epically beautiful woman sleeping on the other side of me and I realize that it was the first time I slept between them. Then, I took a deep breath and a mental step back and remembered that I totally got to fuck this hot lady the night before while her husband, the aforementioned dude I'm all radically in love with, watched and rooted us on. And Khym opened her big green eyes and smiled at me coyly, saying, "Good morning, beautiful."
There was this other time at Matt & Khym's place when Lee and I had just started dating. There was a picture, taken by Khym of me and Lee and Matt. Matt's face isn't in the picture because of the way it was framed, but his body is displayed nicely except for his privates which were obscured by the back of my head. He held me there by a fist full of my bright red pixi-cut hair. and Lee's face was in the picture. He was all red and sweaty and his chest was bleeding because I'd slashed him with my were-nympho talons as I was wont to do back then. Lee was sitting in this big lounge chair in the living room with me teetering naked on his lap. It's actually slightly more tasteful than I make it sound, and pretty hard to recognize me as me, being as my face isn't exactly on-camera either. But I have a tattoo of a little cartoon penguin on my hip that gives my identity away pretty handily, even if you don't already know what I look like naked. So I guess all copies of this picture have been lost or destroyed by now, but I remember it both well and fondly. I wish I could send that picture to you.
Last, but by no means least, there was one morning around the time when Scott and I got engaged when we had spent the night at my mom's home in Hollister with Vidar (my son, who was only about a year and a half old then, if you're keeping tabs) sleeping in his collapsible crib in one corner of the room. V had woken up with the sun, but Scott and I were still very tired, so I was trying to get V to go back to sleep in my arms and he just wouldn't stop wiggling and kicking me, like little kids are often wont to do. So Scott reached over me and scooped up my son with one arm. He held Vidar close and kissed the top of his head and told him that his mommy was very tired and to please go back to sleep. Then Scott told V that he loved him and whaddaya know, it worked. The baby fell back asleep and this man who was not his biological father had done more for me in that instant than had the man who is in fact V's bio dad in the entire tumultuous time he'd been with me. This single act of kindness and parenting was what convinced me that he was the person I needed to spend the rest of my life with.
I treasure all of these things equally. I will to the day I die.
So why tell you any of this? I felt the need for a confidant, but I also wanted you specifically to hear these tales from my life story and gain a better understanding of me as a person from them.
You're not a bad person. You're not a bad fake-boyfriend either, as these things go. But as time goes on, it's much less the "Fake" part of the arrangement that bothers me as the term "friend" begins to rub me the wrong way. Because I try really hard to be a good friend to you, not just a series of kinky stories and potential holes to fill in various extraordinary ways. And consistently I don't get that same feeling of kinship from you. You've never been there for me when I really needed a friend. I can't pretend that doesn't smart, no matter how good your occasional reason or excuse.
When I was 19-20 you didn't care about any feelings I had for you or their misplaced reasoning. I honestly felt sometimes that you didn't think of me as a complete person, so I was forgettable and disposable in your world. I've tried overcoming this insecurity on my part in a variety of ways. Some things have yielded returns, others were less than workable. These things happen all the time. It's nobody's fault. I'm not mad at you, once again, just disappointed. I often enjoy being disappointed by you in this way. It makes me remember that you're not really my boyfriend and you never will be. Nothing I can do or say will ever change you. You won't ever love me and you really shouldn't anyway. I could just about fill the Grand Fucking Canyon with all the things you don't know about me. And, by that same token, I could make an incomplete list of all the shit you've done to fuck me over and demonstrate your absolute recklessness when it comes to your handling of personal relations using only myself as an example. Just recently:
-You promised to explain to me the long story behind your funny email address. I'm still waiting.
-You said you'd send me pictures of your daughter. This was a long time ago now, before we started really flirting and shit got a little weird, but still, it'd be nice to see you as more of a person and less of a fuck-toy.
-You claimed to have the time and enthusiasm to read my writing and lavish me with constant feedback and praise. I knew that one was unrealistic from the start, but it is my #1 favorite thing to talk about. Yes, my ego is both that big and that fragile, and yes, that means that I prefer writing to sex. Sometimes.
-You told me that you would be home all day and that we could talk when I was going through my emotional shit over my best friend ceasing to be that, and when I called you and left more than one sobbing voice mail, you either ignored it or forgot about it because you've never brought it up since or apologized for the miscommunication. Again, this is old news, but it hurt like hell at the time, when i genuinely was believing that I no longer had any friends at all.
-I've brought this one up before: you only respond to my emails when nude pics are attached, and even if there's other information in the same email, you only comment on the explicit content. I realize that this is a result of your precarious combination of high-stress and little-to-no free time and not a reflection of me or you or your personal feelings (or entire lack there of) about either. But it's still dehumanizing and makes me feel pressured to perform without much of a pay-off on my side. Which brings me to the last point I'll make tonight:
-You promised me a video that I'm beginning to think doesn't exist. :) Again, yes, I know you're crazy busy right now and juggling a lot of stressful and less-than-rewarding circumstances in hopes of a more long-term pay-off. I'm not going an all that dissimilar route in my own life. But wait, I did have one last point to make...
-You didn't tell me you were sorry that there was a death in my family. That's just bad manners. :p
It's entirely possible that you haven't gotten around to reading my last several emails, let alone answer them in the past few days. Life moves pretty fast sometimes and you've got to grab your opportunities while you can. But, I'm a girl god damn it. I need some kind of sign that things are okay, that you are interested in me for something slightly more than my body, because you can't actually have that. I'm not going to fuck you. I want to. I like the idea very much. But it's so not going to happen. Especially not at this rate. And that's becoming more upsetting and confusing for me as time wears on.