Working Through My Trauma, One Fetish at a Time
What would sexuality even feel like without all this pain?
We’d just broken up. Sure, he could do whatever he wanted — we weren’t together anymore — but damn if it didn’t hurt that the first thing he wanted (and the first thing he did) was to fuck his coworker, the same coworker I’d worked hard not to be too jealous over. Wasn’t she supposed to be a lesbian, anyway?
I was wearing a denim miniskirt and, as he followed me up the stairs to the apartment, he remarked, “Did your ass always look that good?”
I turned and faked a confident smile in his direction, then led him to the fourth floor so he could pack up his stuff and leave me forever.
Our apartment — okay, my apartment — was so tiny. There was nowhere else to be while he packed up his clothes and his action figures, still in their ridiculous plastic cases. I sat down on the bed and we talked.
“So… you fucked her?”
I hadn’t slept since he left. I didn’t understand why he left me. It’s been 15 years since this moment and I still don’t understand.
“Um… yeah. You heard about that? She just broke up with her girlfriend, too. We were both crashing at the same place. It just kinda happened.”
