Sometimes (okay, pretty much all the fucking time) I seriously hate emotions. The pulls, the tugs, the Goddamned ties that come with the pesky shits all blow le donkey balls. And ya know what really grinds my gears? Those damn feelings always want the ones that are least deserving.
Sleeping with Stalker again was a mistake. As amazing as the night was, and good Lord Satan was it fan-fucking-tastic, what came after was less orgasmic. Really, I should have seen it coming cause it's not like people really ever change and I've slipped between Stalker's sheets enough to know that. Yet, even after the times before, I thought this time would be different. I thought (or maybe hoped) that this time, when I heard I want to be with you, the words were real and backed up by the appropriate emotions. Now I knew they never were before and every other time I took the night of nasty for what it was: good ol' fashioned sinning. But for whatever reasons I cannot possibly comprehend, I allowed myself to feel more than horny.
And when that happens, you know you're in trouble.
I should have known better. After all, Stalker has a lot in common with that curly-haired mother fucker I fuck buddied once upon a time. Basically, I enjoyed sex with them and they enjoyed being wasted around the clock. I tried really hard to ignore the connection between our bedroom escapades and them being drunk enough open flames were a hazard. While the booze flowed, things were wonderfully naked. When sobriety slipped out, it was more like a distant friendship.
No really, I want you all the time. Nice line, eh? I bought it cause, well, it made me feel good. Deep down, I always doubted the truth in the words but I didn't want to face the truth.
I was a dirty little secret.
With Stalker, it felt very much the same. Granted, people actually saw us together. In public even. But the alcohol was always there. Enough to make me drunk off a kiss and not in the dreamlover way.
Have you ever tongue wrestled with someone who made out with a bottle of vodka less than five minutes before? Not as tasty as it sounds. But that's what I did for the entire duration of my fucked up, pseudo-relationship with Curly and, years later, Stalker. Not that Stalker even made it to pseudo-relationship status. Kind of tough to make it that far when you can't see past the empty bottle.
I must be subconsciously attracted to people who either self-medicate or doctor-medicate (see: Scout). Otherwise, why would I torture myself with horrid, drunken wastes of flesh? I don't enjoy pain that much, I swear.
Of course, as much as this shitty game between us sucks, I keep playing it. I say I'm never going back but when that text comes through swearing sorrys and promising better days and nights of cum-drenched goodness, I run right back into the spider's arms.
Dark God, I'm such a sucker for suckers.