The Good, The Bad, and The Smug

I don’t fancy the guy who’s giving me head. The head is OK, the guy is OK, but I’m lying here, thighs spread, and my mind is gently drifting away. I’m not questioning why I don’t fancy him, there’s no panic or insecurity; I’m calm in my indifference. It’s like coming down in the morning and dutifully cooking breakfast, even though you’re not hungry. The orgasm is OK. 

Why did I have sex if I wasn’t into him? I was trying to like a good guy. I was trying to go for the one who’s good for me, rather than the one who would hurt. I was trying to give it time and wait for my feelings to follow. Was it unfair on him? I’m not sure, he appeared to have a decent time. 

The week before, there was a guy who would hurt. A guy who, when describing himself as a “smug cunt”, made my skin tingle. I’m fatally attracted to smug cunts. Fatally as in, my self-worth never survives it. He was ‘my type’ made flesh; long hair, strong accent, quick-witted, confident, eyes that looked at me as though I was his prey. I was immediately hooked on him. Then one day, he disappeared. 

The week before that, there was a guy who sent me unsolicited wanking videos. While tipsy I showed them to friends (friends share things) and they asked why he was so angry at his cock. There’s an art to a good wank vid. The best have a build-up, a tease, a tension between you wanting to see them continue but also release hard. The best urge you to be in the room with them, watching live. This was a guy beating himself hard for 4 minutes at a slightly awkward camera angle. 

The smug cunt had come as a welcome relief. There was conversation, games of Shag, Marry, Avoid with West Wing characters, teasing, heavy flirtation, left-wing politics. Talking to him reminded me of talking to my ex, which I knew was dangerous. I told him he was dangerous: he replied “Good”. That made me like him even more. 

The good guy and I also talked about left-wing politics. There was teasing. There was flirtation. He was clever and funny and cute. But it lacked heat. The way he messaged me good morning and called me sweetie annoyed me. There were really good intentions but I felt they were cloying. The point was, there was no danger; that’s why I was trying, but looking back on it, I wasn’t trying hard enough because I needed danger. 

Being ghosted always makes you examine what you did wrong. Previous examinations concluded that I’d been too full-on, I’d overshared, I’d been too hesitant, too sexual, not vulnerable enough, too fat. This time, it was what I was attracted to. I wanted to pursue someone and prove my charm and sexuality. I wanted the deep sexual attraction more than any compliments. I wanted someone to fall for me against their better judgement. I’m no psychologist, but there’s something darker here that needs the light one day. 

When things started to wane with the good guy I felt sad. The good morning messages that I found annoying had slowed to ceasing to be, I think because he sensed they weren’t being truly reciprocated. He’d tried more than I had, and he’s a better person for it. There’s a loneliness to someone giving up on you, more so than being ghosted. There’s even more of an examination of what you did wrong. There’s more of an examination into what you’re going to keep doing wrong and how you can break the pattern: being attracted to smug cunts, being rejected by smug cunts, ad finitum. 

Sorry good guys, I tried.

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