Numbers

Posted: August 23, 2013 in Personal
Tags: , , , , ,

One.

I can barely remember the first time. The details are unclear. All I remember is the scratching of the floor in the drama room, a sense of suddenness – it wasn’t planned, it just happened – and a fog over everything, as if nothing was real. I remember your face, as you tried so hard to hold it in and stopped before anything really happened. The ensuing months saw us in toilets, in classrooms, in the lobby of your boarding house. You were cold, hard, tiled floors; rough carpet; a sense of elation and the thrill at the possibility of getting caught; beating hearts, and tears. More tears than one person could possibly contain.

You were hours on the phone running the bill sky high, Skype sex and secrets. You were cuts on my wrist, pills swallowed and pain resulting in a vomit of poetry. You were disappointment and everything that I hated about myself.

But above all else, you were the first.

Two.

The circumstances were unfavourable the first time we met. It was hot, sweaty and loud in Bar Club. My best friends tried to warn me of the consequences – they asked me if I really knew what I was getting myself into. I said yes. I had no idea.

You surprised me. We became friends, with a deadly attraction. Sex with you reminded me of him the first time. The next two times were better.

You were sudden sexual explosions (even though I never had an orgasm with you – it was just you fucking me with no regards as to my pleasure), and then long periods of getting on with my life until you suddenly waltzed in again.

But over everything else, you were that one night in the shower, letting the hot water run until steam blurred your features. We sat on the floor of the shower across from each other, hot water driving into my back, and we talked about our broken hearts. You were the first step towards recovering myself after him. You kissed me on the forehead when you left that morning. We never saw each other again.

Three.

You came out of nowhere and swept me off my feet. It was the beginning of my college life and I skipped classes and stayed over at your place, refusing to have sex with you until I was sure this was love. You were the one to show me how to enjoy it, the beginning of my sexual self-discovery.

You were the one with no sense of direction, nights at Mist and Milk and that one night when we were about to fuck for the first time and your ex knocked on the door. You were funny and confident and everything I wanted in a man, except you were not my man. Your heart belonged to another. And so you were another disappointment, the one that never got over his ex while I did my best to move on from mine and finally started to succeed.

You were the one who taught me how to start loving myself again.

Four.

I came over to your house, wanting to explore the wild side by being bold and taking what I wanted. I swam with you, and then we fucked. After that, I wanted nothing more to do with you because every instinct in my body screamed at me that you were danger.

I ignored it.

You were late nights having shisha at Bangsar, sneaking in and eating instant noodles, movies at The Curve. You were that holiday in Bali with my father and his family. You were 8 months of raising me up and bringing me down. I hated you, but I thought I loved you. Looking back, I know now I was simply infatuated with the idea of a love that wasn’t difficult. But it was difficult. You were difficult.

You were stubborn and weak and you brought me down with you every single time. You turned me into something I despised, bringing out the worst in me. You were screaming fights and me driving away; tearful; angry; suicidal.

You were lies – drugs and other girls, but so good at lying that I could never really prove it. You were the one that caused my best friend and I to fall out and not talk to each other until months after we broke up and I finally called her to put that mess behind us. And you were the reason I vowed never to let myself fall so low again.

But above all else, you were the one whose family adored me and showed me more love and kindness than I could ever repay.

Five.

It’s been two years now.

The best thing is: you’re still a story being written.

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Comments
  1. That was very raw and real. I liked it! Nice post. 🙂

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