Sex, Porn and the Seduction of Self Realization: My Breakup Story with Love

If love was an actual person, it would definitely be that girl who I never call or text, but would low-key eat her ass with a spoon any time, anywhere and for any reason absolutely whenever she wanted.

But then right after I'd remember, and I'd be like: "oh yeah, I hate this bitch" and then leave and never talk to her again... until the next time it's 3 am and she wants her ass ate again. 

In less colourful terms, I guess what I'm alluding to is that fact that although  "Love" may be a tantalising and seductive baddie, I am absolutely over her and her triflin' ways. 

It's a similar feeling to finally being able to drop your sexy-ass ex, who was also a huge whore. Definitely something that needs to be done, but damn if it ain't a shame.

As a child, that love with a capital "L" was what I wanted. I wanted that real shit, that good shit. That fuck me and love me forever type shit. I wanted a husband. I was 8. 

This eventually got warped as I got sucked into the vortex that is internet pornography, which I feel if we're being truthful, has definitely contributed to most people's willingness to wait until their soulmate comes along. I mean, I personally am still waiting for a man to make me come harder than I have to a mature prison BBW orgy clip... but I digress.

Anyway, throughout that weird period of exhausting parts of the internet that my little 11-15 year old fingers most certainly shouldn't have been in, I still yearned and ached for it. For that looooOOoove. Then came the fantasies. 

I started off where everyone else did: imagining their wedding. Except I'd be imagining after the wedding. No, fuck it, I was thinking about after the damn vows. It's "I do!" and then "Oh, YES!" 9 minutes later in a closet somewhere while we're supposed to be getting dressed for the reception. 

I thought about leaving the reception. Sucking dick on the way to the airport, on the plane, in the hotel lobby (if it couldn't get me arrested, it didn't count as a good location). Thought about all the positions and practised all of my sexy-yet-witty one-liners that I would tell my gorgeous muscular white (it was a phase) husband, mere seconds before he obliterated my cervical canal into smithereens with his huge colossal dick. I was 14. 

Intrinsically, the thought of love and sex went in natural tandem in my mind. What would one be without the other? Still valid, I suppose -  just not for me. If I wanted to hang out with someone without fucking them, I'd watch Maury with my Grandma. Know what I mean? 

Was the porn to blame? Was it the steamy 2-4 sentences of slight teenage erotica nestled in between every 6 chapters of Twilight? Was it the yearning of something I had never experienced, or had ever known anyone to actually experience? Yes. 

And thus began my relationship with Love. 

Damn, that bitch is sexy. It's pissing me off to even think about. 

The idea that someone is super into you and also literally super into you was so delicious and unheard of, that it quickly became all I ever wanted. 

I poured over teenage romance book, I slipped more than one Harlequin romance novel into the library bathroom with me, and I salivated over every. single. Jake Gyllenhaal rom-com (this, I most definitely still do).

Eventually, the fantasies shifted. 

All of a sudden, I wanted a family. I envisioned my husband coming home to me and our mixed children (again, this was a phase, I am a changed man) and then fucking on absolutely every surface imaginable while our children would sleep, dreaming their sweet 3C dreams. 

But the fantasies weren't always sex (even though sex was involved 100% of the time). They were also the stupid cutesy shit like taking baths, and whispering sweet nothings, and my personal favorite: romantic BDSM.

Eventually, it came to a point where Love and I didn't even to get personal like that. We were metaphysical, baby! The fantasies were enough. And then I actually fell in love. 

And then we broke up because I was seventeen and that was obviously not love.

Enter dating apps. 

Whoever invented Tinder really fucked my shit up. All of a sudden I had the biggest population of men, all of whom had the potential to be my husband and partner in obscure sexual deviance. 

What a silly, silly bitch I was. 

Tinder was the fucking best. I swiped, in abundance, I swiped without deep thought, I swiped with vigor, bitch. I was hunting, I was shopping, I was searching. You get a swipe, you get a swipe! Check under your seat! You get a swipe too!

I was also simultaneously becoming acutely aware of my own sadness, and was doing M in a basement every Friday after work, but I made the executive decision to pretend to not see any parallels in these behaviours. 

My last relationship left me feeling like a brand new person. There was no time to waste on silly little boys anymore, no Miss. I wanted a husband, ok!

... But before that, I wanted some dick.

Enter hoe phase.

Except not really, because I was two penises deep in "hoe" phase, and then I met him. By "him" I'm obviously referring to my ex boyfriend, but we should probably refer to him by his legal status as "Satan's Slutty Nephew". Gotta give titular credit where it's due.

This guy, was the. one. Let me tell you, the dick? *Kisses fingers like an impassioned French chef* c'est magnifique!

He was also sweet, and gentle, and had a soft voice, and loved being bitch slapped sometimes. 

It was as if he was manifested directly out of my thoughts and prayers. 

He was the best, and I deserved and needed the best. So, he obviously was for me. 

Enter codependency:

My boyfriend and I did everything together. Literally everything. We bathed together, brushed our teeth together, went EVERYWHERE together (had to always be holding hands, always every time. Even in the winter. He would put my hands in his pockets because girl pockets are bullshit, but that is an essay on it's own, let me tell you). We also had to always be physically or electronically tethered. Our hands were welded together, we would Instagram and Snap Chat message simultaneously while being in the same room, no doubt in some body formation that involved most of our body parts eclipsing the others. We slept together, clutching tightly the entire night - summer or winter, and I would stay up sometimes just to stare and marvel that I somehow, finally, miraculously got what I wanted. Out of everything that life straight up fucked me on, they somehow let this slip past final scan, and I was able to have the literal man of my dreams. 

Oh, poor poor baby. 

 

Soon, we became our own cult: Members only, but no new members allowed. 

We blew off our friends (well, I blew mine off. He didn't have any - H U G E red flag), and literally only spent our time with each other. I didn't want to see my roommate, my little brother, my mom. Just him. Only him. 

We needed to see each other everyday. Needed to talk, to text. Needed that "Love". 

Except any mother, therapist, or sentient human being with eyeballs could obviously see that this was clearly an intense, unhealthy codependency caused by a significant lack of love and attention by our parents in our formative years. Ta-da! 

Anyway, we broke up because he kept trying to cheat on me (by simultaneously lying and also literally being the most caring and understanding human being ever - spoiler alert!  That's how they get us). 

To say the absolute very least, I was fucking crushed. Ripped clean in half. 

All of a sudden it was "oh hey, Love? yeah you mind coming in here a sec, and telling me what in the fuck that was?"

Needless to say I was fucking over it. Love obviously didn't exist, and was a fantasy fabricated from social media, my own idealistic dreams, and the first 5 seconds before a blowjob scene.

Enter hoe phase part 2 (Reprise):

Awful dick, annoying men, hilarious one-liners (by me, obviously).

I also had repeated sex with a human being that I am 100% convinced has a demon or three currently living in him. Could see it in his eyes (and feel it when we fucked, it was awful and thus led to the final gasp of the spirit of Chloe the Hoey).

Enter abstinence:

Me?! Abstinent?! HA.

But true. So perhaps that HA was misleading. Let me explain though, this is not for lack of want (I dream, absolutely DREAM every night after prayers, to get my black blown in just 90 more times before I quit the stuff for good), but for necessity. 

Since Love cannot exist without sex for me, then I'm gonna starve the bitch out. 

Since she wants to act childish, how about no dick, no pussy (oh yeah, I'm also quite gay) and no romantic connections at all? How's that? Not so fun, right?

And you might be laughing at me, because this is obviously only affecting me (though I'm tempted to play up the limitless potentials, now that I've made the concept into literary 3D). But that's the point. 

Honestly? I don't want it any more. 

That's where I am right now. 

Romantic Love has been nothing but a conglomeration of confusing, illusive, manipulating, stressful, annoying, sex-fuelled moments, sprinkled with just enough super long texts, and confessions of misdirected emotion to make us feel secure. 

I'm out. 

I don't want to be responsible for that. I don't want to put a smile on anyone's face, because honestly, who needs that pressure. 

I don't want to be a well of love and support, I don't want to be anyone's anything, I don't want a relationship, a situationship, I don't want to be adored, I don't want to be the "best part" of anyone's day, I don't to be looked at, I don't want to be touched, I don't want to spoken to, I don't even want to be thought of

Ok, obviously the last few were over-exaggerations, I love attention. But, you get my point. 

Basically, the """"""""""""""""""" love(s) of my life """""""""""""""""" are gonna have to come so naturally, and perfectly timed in my life because now I know all of Love's tricks. I know her games, I can smell them coming, and no ma'am, I think I'm good!

And is this some type of defence mechanism against getting shot in the face again? Oh, most definitely. 

I just want to be safe. And happy. And I am the safest and the happiest in the care of my own self. 

After 21 years of searching for love, the biggest gag of it all was that I was Love this whole time. 

Which I'm sure is beautiful in and of itself, but it has also made me extremely protective of my own self. I don't want anyone to touch, I don't want anyone to look. I am the guardian and protector of my little baby heart, and all these people with their grubby greedy hands just want to eat and eat at it until it is all theirs, and I refuse

You can't have it. You can't have me. I'm mine. 

And we are in looOOOooove.