to lovers past and present

Sometimes I wish my sexuality remained unawakened. If I never had sex, I could never be negatively affected by it, much like how you can prevent alcoholism by never touching liquor or drug abuse by not sampling anything recreational. When I was in college, though, I realized that sooner or later I would have to have sex in order to have a fulfilling relationship, whereas you can't say the same about drugs, alcohol, gambling, and a host of other activities that can go wrong.¹ For example, I'm only hurting myself if I can't control my spending or my booze (except if I had a family), but I'm irrevocably including someone else with sex. Whether it's harmful needs to be decided on a case-by-case basis.

To the inconsequentials
You weren't so inconsequential at the time we were having sex. Each time I did it with you -- and there were a lot of you -- I'd feel unfulfilled, thinking, "That's all there is?", and committing myself to a lifetime of frigidity and disappointment. And infections. I'd get you out of my life, decide to start anew, but you'd leave me with a UTI or BV or something else that wasn't an STD (of course I was safe!) but affiliated with doing the deed. Finally, I got fed up with this cycle and decided to give up men for 2008. I still might be harboring grudges on you if it weren't for this other dude.

To the sourpuss stoner
Your original nickname was Marijuana Matt, then you became my rapist ex-boyfriend, but I think "sourpuss stoner" hits the nail on the head when it comes to your pathetic existence. You were neglectful, used me for my money to buy toys for your photography hobby, and raped me after Valentine's Day dinner. (When the person you call your girlfriend on Facebook -- because reality means nothing to you -- wakes up crying after passing out from a ten-gallon martini with memories of you fucking her when she was undressing, perhaps you should try to console her?) Nothing felt "right" the year I was with you, but I stuck it out because you made it seem as if I couldn't trust my own judgment due to my naïveté. I threw caution to the wind, and you abused my trust. I hate you with every cell of my body.

To the guy from Enid's
You met me at the top of my game. In summer 2009 I had been consistently going the gym, felt great overall after befriending Punk Ropers, and had the confidence that losing a few pounds provides to boot. I made the first move, saying you reminded me of John Hodgman, and you shouldn't have felt uncomfortable when I showed up for a burger in Park Slope in a dress; I was feeling hot and had a date. I toned my wardrobe down considerably when we went to Donovan's and had a blast when we made out on the Pulaski Bridge. Though we never had sex, I think it would have been fantastic, even though I still wasn't quite sure what to do with my body. It would take another man to teach me what I liked.

To the gentleman caller
It's impossible for me to say anything negative about you. Our relationship wasn't perfect, but you respected me, comforted me, and gave me the best sexual education when it comes to my body (and yours). You made me forget about the sourpuss stoner, and I will never forget that one night when I opened up, telling you about a time I went completely bat-shit crazy, and you held me, hysterical and crying, in your arms and forgave me. Unfortunately, I felt intimidated and incapable of providing adequate emotional support -- that's what usually happens when I date someone significantly older -- and we walked away on good terms. I will always be grateful for your most important lesson: there are good men in the world worth waiting for.

To the missed connection
Shortly after calling it quits with Gentleman Caller, I was on the G train and overheard you talking to your friends about General Grievous, the robot with a cough from Star Wars: Episode Three. I had to speak up, saying it's impossible for something without lungs and a diaphragm to cough, and then exited at Greenpoint. I was stunned that you wrote a Missed Connection post on Craig's List about it, and we got to know each other. You're my age (check!), from Long Island (not a hipster!), and available (yes!). We went out a few times in January -- I even felt comfortable telling you about my eccentric drug habits, and you seemed interested -- but we didn't really click. Okay. Fine. No big loss. Then the teasing started: You mentioned some of your interesting sexual practices and sent me text messages when you were horny, and I found you attractive because you were unattainable. Then you kissed me after we spent a good night at Punk Rope happy hour. My brain and intuition said not to do it, but my baser instincts wanted you. I gave into them, and then I realized that you were not going to like me the way I wanted to be liked. I ripped you off like a Band-Aid; it hurt like hell, but now I can stop picking at my skin.

¹ Susan Cheever's Desire: Where Sex Meets Addictionis a horribly written book that has few insights, but the author makes clear how sex addiction is different from others.