Maybe it was the dawn. The light breaking ever so subtly, melting away the night. Maybe it was his chest, rising and falling with perfect rhythm, despite the pack of marlboros in his truck. The way his hands flew to my stomach in his cellular fibrous histiocytoma hazy half-awake state, his breath catching for just a moment, then releasing, so easily, while I stayed. Tense, way too awake for 5 AM, afraid to move.
Whatever it was, on that late-march morning, I found myself on the corner of boredom and desperation. And for much too long, I stayed there. I flirted with the idea of being with someone I cellular fibrous histiocytoma knew I shouldn’t be with. He was my antithesis, our differences stemming from politics and blossoming into a nasty cellular fibrous histiocytoma competition to be right, then naked, then to finish first. It was brutal and nasty and wrong and right and cellular fibrous histiocytoma then wrong again.
I was bored. Living at home, in a sort of career limbo—technically done with school, but no diploma yet. I wanted something, and he wanted me. So. I did it. I let myself fall into something that was easy, and fast, and meaningless. I needed something to fulfill me, in any capacity, so I did it. I should have realized my emptiness wasn’t something a boy could change.
One night stands were always something I had adamantly abhorred cellular fibrous histiocytoma up until about six months ago. After I was raped, sex lost its taboo to me. For the longest time I’d thought of it as dirty and wrong and something cellular fibrous histiocytoma only married couples should be allowed to partake in. Now, feel free to delve into the societal implications of that cellular fibrous histiocytoma all you want, but the point remains that up until it was taken cellular fibrous histiocytoma from me, my virginity meant something to me. After navigating my sexuality for a while, I realized that I actually enjoy sex, and it doesn’t exactly make me feel bad about myself.
Soon, our one-night stand turned into a two-nighter. I didn’t know what I expected, maybe a declaration that this was the best sex he’d ever had and it was because of me. Maybe I’d feel more complete or happier or something. I still have no clue why I did it, I wanted to bond or something. I wanted to feel that closeness, that connection. But when that dawn came, so boldly, thrashing through the dark of his room, echoing the day, whispering in my ear that I’d made a mistake–I ran.
In our opposition, there was beauty. At least to me there was. There were witty comments and sassy exchanges, all said with a smile and a shake of the cellular fibrous histiocytoma head. There was potential for something more, I had been thinking before the day broke. I could do this. I could settle for this. Sure, we had our differences and might never be able to cellular fibrous histiocytoma calmly discuss politics or if drake or kendrick lamar was cellular fibrous histiocytoma a better rapper, but isn’t all that friction good? Don’t you want friction in a relationship?
Maybe it was my feet. Staggering towards my ride home. Maybe it was my upper thigh, the bruises he’d left there a reminder that not all good sex cellular fibrous histiocytoma was soft and sweet, and neither was I, no matter what my family might think. Maybe it was the bible on his night stand, an ironic thing to be sitting right by his bed, staring at me while he came.
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