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“Yeah, but this is Kappa Phi Delta. You screw one and they may all want a piece of your ass. I seriously had nightmares about it.” I grimace. “About me getting raped?” “That’s why they’re called nightmares, Lily. They’re not supposed to be pleasant.”
I barely stumble on his frequent use of love. In middle school, I told him how I thought it was the sexiest term of endearment. And even though British guys have claimed stake to it, Lo took it as his own.
I shake off my doubts. We’re in a three-year long fake relationship. We live together. He’s heard me orgasm from one room over. I’ve seen him sleep in his own puke. And even though our parents believe we’re one small step from engagement, we’ll never have sex again. It happened once, and that has to be enough.
The water washes away the smell and grime, but my sins are here to stay.
His addiction is screwing with my addiction. Alcohol trumps sex is this place, and that kills me. Or at least the part of me that needs a good lay, preferably one that lasts longer than five minutes.
His addiction scares me sometimes. Alcoholism can destroy livers and kidneys, and one day, he may not wake up from a night of bingeing. But how can I tell him to stop? How can I judge him when I am nowhere near ready to let go of my crutch? So for right now, this is the best I can do.
When we were eighteen, he asked me what it felt like to go without climaxing for a day, and I told him it feels like someone is burying my head under the sand and pulling my limbs so tight they become taut rubber bands, waiting to be snapped and released. The cravings feel like drowning and being lit on fire at the same time. He said he could relate to the paradox.
“I’m not one of your conquests,” he says in a throaty voice. “I know what you want, and you don’t need to take it. I can give it to you.”
“I want to love you more than I love this”—he waves his bottle—“and I don’t know how else to do it unless there’s something to lose.”
Being called weird by Connor is like a unicorn calling a horse magical.
Why can’t I have an addiction that people understand? It’s a vile thought—to wish for an addiction many die with. I’d rather have none at all, but for some reason, I never allow myself that option.
Sex made me feel better and stopping would cause more problems than continuing down the destructive path. The next minute, I cried for hours and convinced myself to quit. I told myself I didn’t have a problem. I was just a whore looking for a way to justify my constant sexual thoughts. Sometimes I tried to stop. I trashed my porn and refused my body the luxury of climaxing.
No one told me you can love someone and still be miserable. How is that possible?
And I suppose, the fear of losing each other is always stronger than the pain we cause.
I contemplate her words on the ride home, and wonder if she’s right. If accepting the fact that I’m selfish and unable to change will help heal the guilt. If not—maybe sex will.
I’ve never changed my mind after I invited someone to have sex with me. I’ve never been hurt by my addiction. Not like this.
“No means no. I don’t care when you fucking say it, Lily. Once it’s out there, it’s out there. Any halfway decent guy would have backed off.”
love you, but I want to love you enough that I never choose alcohol over you. Not even for a moment. I want to be someone you deserve. Who helps you rather than enables you, and I can’t begin to do that until I get help for myself.”
“I’ll always be yours. No distance or time apart will change that, Lily. You need to believe that.”
He knew the only way for me to truly fight is if I have something to lose.
