I feel like I’m never going to find a relationship where the glue that holds us together is a willingness to examine the man’s sexual inadequacy ever again.
There’s a limit to how willing I am to change and become less maladaptive. It’s why I left my last therapist. Not Peter, but Nicole. I can’t remember if I’ve spoken about her here. It’s been so long.
Life is getting better, I guess. In a Master’s program now and I can play the grown up game ok for a whore. But the older I get, the more apparent the fork in the road becomes. The better part of me knows I should probably forgo at least some of my once previously held lifelong goals in order to curb my more salacious desires.
When I say I hate you part of me means it but you know it’s mainly a paper thin bluff because in actuality I owe you a lot for forcing me to rethink my entire schema. I never knew how far I would push myself just to cum.
I wish I could be a regular bitch and have a boring life and a normal job and a husband I really love. Some guy with the courage to smile at me in class or something. After a few years, we throw a housewarming party to placate my family. We save up to get a car and argue over who should cut the grass next. After years of blissful mediocrity, he has a one night stand with some drunk woman at a bar and though I’m devastated, I take him back because when he tells me about it, I see tears glisten in his eyes.
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