I think Ten is bored of me. We’re probably going to break up, if you could even call it that since we were never really going out. When I said to him, can I stay at your house this weekend?, he should have said yes right away because it means we will have a lot of sex. He didn’t. He is done with me.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m cheating Ten but then I remind myself that we fuck every time we hang out. I’m projecting my ideas of sexuality onto him and I know how much I hate it when men do that to me. We fuck practically every time we hang out, sometimes multiple times, I can’t recall a time when I didn’t bring him to at least some kind of orgasm. I’m being perfectly fair. He was the one who made me see that it would be dangerous to take the metro all the way home after leaving the club late at night.
I’m not mad at him–he owes me nothing and each time we meet it is a one-time transaction, no matter how many more times we do it and no matter how many times we’ve done it before–but it does mean that I’m going to have to go around throwing myself at everyone for the next few days until somebody decides to be a taker, which I’d be fine with if I thought there were a decent chance of even one of them saying yes.
I texted three people tonight, two of them multiple times and only one of them responded and even then it was barely a response. These people have no cred to tell me how to feel about suicide.
Some people would tell me to get over it, implying that it’s normal to be ignored, like if you point it out you’re making a big deal out of literally nothing. I will get over it–seriously–when they get over it the next time their dick is hard.