From Porn with Love

“I might want to have new boobs,” I thought to myself, petting my vanity and insecurities at the same time. Perky, little but full - model -like breasts.

I masturbated today.

Either my antidepressant stopped working, or I entered a new level of serotonin saturation in my body - I am back to being horny. It’s kinda crazy, I feel like I am a teenager again.

Randomly, around midday, I felt the need to ride a dick. So I did.

I dived into the sweet feeling of passionate, lazy fogginess with my rabbit dildo (penguin on the counter just in case) and the sound of porn. Although porn sites are disgusting, it makes you feel like you are opening a disgusting man vault of manhood. Like you are entering a poorly furnished man cave.

I often find that I have the best self-pleasure time when I stimulate my clit, my sight, and hearing - almost all senses! And memories. Memories, memories, memories - here we go.

It’s not even about general but current obsession or feeling of comfort and familiarity. When I was younger, I watched different types of porn to get to know my palate. Cringy, lesbian, threesomes, orgies, brutal, public places, strange? (Sometimes I might click just out of pure curiosity). As I matured, I realized amateur is my favorite because it allows me to form this magical link between fantasy and reality. I talk to my dear friend about it, and he says the same thing - it tickles a special place in his brain.

Masturbation can be an act of physical and mental self-discovery. I grew to like watching pornstars that look like people I currently love and fuck. Once I had this wonderful lover, who was like an 80s French fuck machine - brutal, dirty, HUGE penis. To clarify huge doesn't mean best, but when you see one it’s like seeing a dolphin on holidays at Maldives (or a shark). It’s difficult not to acknowledge it’s existence.

The way he fucked was like art. I could stop there, but I will add another word: “art show.” Perfectly curated, self-satisfactory ongoing three-hour show of slapping, spitting, kissing, and sometimes sleeping (he might have fallen asleep when he was too drunk or too high as I was on top). I will give him that he had a good balance of brutality and romance that I liked at the time. So in the moments of us being apart, there was this porn star that popped up in my browser. I am not going to name names, but I am sending my genuine appreciation. Tall, toned and muscular, lots of tattoos, HUGE penis. Now what this guy is doing is pure art. The perfect combination of domination, passion, and vulgarity. I also liked the way he moaned. There was no talking, pretty and natural scenery, sexy but natural woman. You could call it “indie porn” minus pubic hair. I will call him Mr. Fifty.

So Mr. Fifty was my obsession for a good few months. Even after the breakup, he was my safe space on Pornhub. He knew what I liked, how I liked it, and he did not dump me. As I entered my new relationship, my obsession with Mr. Fifty burned out. Thank God because otherwise, I would have to marry him.

I drifted in the direction of sensual porn. More amateur, less curation (but still good taste!) Morning sex, passionate sex.

Yes, I fell in love.

I even stopped having an urge to watch porn. Only to fill the void of missing or to enrich my new love nest. But seriously when you have sex with someone you love, there is no place for rehearsals. Sex becomes like a second language to you, expressing everything you can’t without words. I learned the definition of lovemaking. It’s pretty terrifying.

We felt like kids, sometimes being spontaneous and adventurous, sometimes more emotional. Sweet words between moans, slaps, sweat, skin dripping in liquids.First awkward sex, crazy sex, makeup sex, and all the other sexes. We were tumultuous in moments of shyness, passion, great conversations, and a lot of fear.As my feelings grew deeper, I discovered an unknown feeling of jealousy and insecurity. It was so unfamiliar I couldn’t name what I was feeling. I am not going to go into details simply because I would have to write another essay on the history of lack of commitment in my relationships.

We were not committed. Even though I knew we were seeing only each other, despite the possibility of freedom, one day I saw a glimpse of long blonde hair on his story. It wasn’t anything serious but immediately I felt a punch in my stomach. Like this wave of fear, anxiety, and rejection going through your entire body. The anxiety encouraged me to dig deeper, and there is no better detective than a jealous woman.

Slim. Tall. Blonde.

Cool.

I don’t want to quote Amy Dunne’s monologue from “Gone Girl,” but that one was her definition.

“Does he like that?” I thought to myself.

Frankly, I was everything but her. I never cared to have the coolest possessions, I definitely wasn’t a show-off. I laughed at people that wore what was “in” right now. You know there are these pieces every season that are extremely popular, but as soon as the new thing becomes popular, it becomes almost ugly.

She didn’t have a lot of followers, but I paid attention to little details. And he liked almost every single photo of her. She was a model (obviously) She dressed like she didn’t care but it was curated for teenage boys sight: oversized boys t-shirt, tight jeans, messy hair, no makeup. This made me challenge a feeling that I never felt before with any guy - I questioned my attractiveness. She was into sports, could travel with him and I was working pro bono on movie sets.

At the time, I was studying, having my first big job experiences, trying to make a living and not die from hunger. I always loved fashion; it was a big part of my self-expression, but your options are limited with a smaller budget. I needed to juggle my passion for small, independent brands, natural wine and niche perfume with bills and art supplies. I come from bohemian, artistic family - wealthy, but it was enough for my parents to help me financially and pay for college. If I wanted to buy myself treats, I needed to make my own money. And they could never understand mine - the first time I spend birthday money on a Louis Vuitton bag, my dad thought someone has stolen my credit card (I was seventeen at the time so he had insight into my finances). Once in college I spend my entire monthly allowance on Max Mara coat (it was on sale, okay - a bargain!) and I needed to eat still oats until the end of the month. They still don’t understand how could I get excited trying on buttery pair of leather pants for equivalent of basic salary. It’s an empiric experience worthy of every price. I grew up watching Carrie Bradshaw running around Manhattan in her Manolos and I always knew I will have no less of a life. I inhaled everything I could about fashion history and current trends, like a distant observer. And I never felt bad for not owning (yet) a thousand-dollar, coolest sneakers of the season until the day I saw “The Blonde.”  Suddenly I didn’t feel all that comfortable in my brunette bob. My feminine vintage, flowy dresses, elegant oversized sweaters, and flared avant-garde pants felt ridiculous. Eclectic style that defined me in the last few years felt like a trap. Dictated by my curvaceous thighs, small waist, and big butt - I could never wear what “The Blonde” has worn. I was never “the cool kid,” never cared to be one until this moment.

Of course, I wasn’t self-aware of perfection, so it took me some time to realize that this burning, rotting sensation in my heart is jealousy. This is another fact about me - I was always pretty confident. I definitely knew my value. When dating, I never felt like I could not have something. I was charming, chubby, and sexy. I had passions and a hunger for life. I had personality, a sharp tongue, and I loved pleasure. I was smart and courageous, almost to the point of being arrogant and unhinged. I never cared what “the boys” wanted. I also rarely dated someone who rejected me, maybe because those were short flings and I was looking for LOVE.

Personality isn’t set in stone. We shift and change our entire lives. And my current personality was just a facade. Nike Jordans broke it.

Soon we were seeing each other less frequently, he started pulling away to the point we weren’t a couple, we weren’t dating, we weren’t even talking. I was heartbroken and couldn’t move on. It was the time I discovered the taste of “sad masturbation,” where the memories are flowing through you all the time like a living flame. I assumed that his distant behavior must have come from him realizing I am not cool enough. I am too fat, too poor. I am just not “it.”

But I still masturbated thinking of intimate moments between us. Shamefully, the thought of his penis lit me up instantly; it was an easy ride. Even when watching porn, I saw glimpses of us in “morning sex,” “passionate sex,” “love making” (yes, there is this keyword on Pornhub). And as  my mind was drifting on the animalistic wavelength of pushes, roundness, thickness, I noticed “The Blonde.” She was riding him, and the gut-wrenching feeling mixed in my stomach with desire.

“Nooo, not her, you bitch,” I thought to myself. Porn for a second turned into the nightmare of my life.

But as I stared at long blonde hair bouncing up and down, slapping the back of a slim naked back, I stepped on the line of curiosity. I peeked into something I was terrified to see.

And it got me off even more.

All of a sudden, I was there, and I wanted to see them. I was fascinated by the skinny, cool blonde. They looked really good together. Their fit bodies were matching. I was there with them in the room, knowing that in reality, they must be doing that as well.

“Good for them,” I thought. They are perfect for each other—they have common interests, they like the same sports, they both have the money. She is pretty, like one of the WAGs, she is the one everyone wants.

“She is pretty but probably really dirty in bed; she probably acts like a pornstar. I bet she blows him well. Eh, good for him; at least he enjoys himself”.

I like to watch him enjoy himself.

Despite my current mixture of hate and lingering love.

I came, and a sudden wave of disgust surrounded me.

“Why am I doing this to myself? What is wrong with me?”

I need to thank “The Blonde,” though. I promised myself I will never feel fat and ugly ever again. I will never feel like I’m poor. That is not who I am.

Over a couple of months, I completely transformed myself and felt better than ever. I realized that under the feeling of jealousy is a desire to take care of myself and have the courage to have full curation over my look. Without thinking about what anybody thinks. I started growing my career and prioritized earning a certain amount of money.

I got fully moved out from my parents and had my dream apartment.

With the new money from my job, I started buying designer clothes, which was my dream since being a little girl. I invested in a good aesthetician. Lost a lot of weight. I was meditating, reading lots of books, spending a lot of time by myself. I invested in very expensive hair extensions, as I had no patience for growing my hair long.

And lastly, I dyed them blonde.

I looked like a walking Barbie.

And I loved it.

Other than that, I was taking really good care of myself. I was meditating, reading a lot, spending time by myself. I felt good, and it showed.

It wasn’t about becoming “The Blonde.” Frankly, I didn’t know anything about her; I created that persona in my head. We all know the power of Instagram, photos, and filters. I didn’t even know whether she was dating my ex or not. But she represented to me something that I wanted to have.

I promised myself that the next time I see her (and I will probably see her with my ex), I will not feel like shit. I refuse to feel like shit. I will walk with my head held high because there is nothing that she is better at than me.

We obviously got back together. Briefly. Things ended even more tragically than the first time. As we had sex in my beautiful apartment, in front of a gigantic mirror in front of the bed, I saw us together. I felt amazing in my skin. I had long, voluminous, light hair flowing around my head like it was a Victoria's Secret Show. Rarely before had I looked at myself in the mirror while having sex because I felt nasty. I didn’t like my belly sticking out and rolling as I was bending. My breasts were full and wild, my cheeks rubicund.

But now I looked at myself, I looked at us with courage. It was a really good feeling.

I looked like the girl from the porn.

I even found a couple that looked like us on Pornhub. I mean, they don't have faces, but other details were matching—let’s leave it there.

He confessed he loved me and then ghosted me for two months, not notifying me about changes in his life. I was on holiday in Tuscany, and despite living in a gorgeous old palace, every day was poisoned with the feeling of the inevitable. I mean, you know what it feels like to be ghosted? You think they must be busy, but then the silence is a bit too long, and it hits you—he fucking ghosted me. When I was going back home, a glimpse of a familiar-looking hand showed on Instagram. I WASN’T EVEN LOOKING FOR IT, OKAY? It found me. I felt like I was going to faint, but it was too late to look away and pretend like I don’t know whose hands I’ve seen. Apparently, he didn’t have time to notify me about changes in our situationship because he was too busy partying with his ex.

And now, as if we’re taking another step into hypnosis, we’re going deeper.

So, before us happened (for the purpose of the story, let’s call him the Clown), the Clown was in a turbulent relationship with the Tits. Nobody liked “Tits,” nobody liked them together—they were toxic, splitting and making up, a hell of a couple. Honestly, I was convinced they would always be together because the Clown couldn’t escape the toxicity he was addicted to; it was everything he had ever known. Nobody in our friends group wanted them to be together because they felt bad for the Clown, he didn’t deserve it. Tits was using him without apologies. She didn’t work, she drank, did drugs, was lazy, fake, talking shit about people. I mean, she is one of the worst people I have ever encountered; she is pure, toxic evil.

But one day, the Clown got to jail because of the Tits. Yes, you hear me—he was arrested for “assaulting her” because she wanted to drive the car while being wasted, and he took the keys away from her. They broke up for good, or so he told me when he asked me out for drinks.

We were friends; honestly, I never thought much of him other than that. We had an almost “sibling-like” bond. The only reason why I went out with him was because I was recovering from Mr. 80s French Fuck Machine. I just wanted an easy night out and not to be lonely. But the moment I saw the Clown, something was different. He told me about his recent experiences, and he grew so much as a person. I gained respect for him and couldn’t help but notice that he got hotter. We had a lot of mutual topics; I never realized that we had so much in common. As the night progressed, I got the odd feeling that he might be into me, which is awkward when you are friends with someone for eight years. But this night got me thinking. We had both changed a lot over the course of our relationship; we weren’t kids anymore who knew each other from wild college parties. He was focused on work, stable, seemed to know what he wants. I could feel the relationship with Tits broke him and gave him a big lesson. I respected him. And I really wanted to be in a normal, easy relationship.

A few months later, we saw each other again at a party, and he acted different. He kept looking at me completely mesmerized, like I was the only person in the room. It felt good, safe, and comforting. We started seeing each other. We talked about everything till morning hours. We laughed like kids, made love which was awkward and clumsy, but at the same time, we created our own, sacred space. We were open and honest and felt infinite. That was the first time I had “everything” with someone; there weren’t fireworks, it felt more like a cozy, warm fireplace. And I felt seen. He really knew “me.” Nobody has, other than my sister and closest, best friends. And I’ve seen him. The past didn’t matter; this was a completely new timeline in space. That was the first time I’ve experienced true love, just loving someone for them being. Loving their soul. But basically, when I realized it, I started freaking out. So did he.

Of course, Tits never left the picture; she was always lurking, spying, and keeping tabs on him. When she found out that he was with me, she went nuts. She was calling him every day, texting. She was relentless (for six months). One day, I saw she sent him a nude, and I froze. He opened and closed quickly as we sat together on a couch watching a movie. I didn’t comment on it because I didn’t want it to look like I was spying on him, but something changed. We went to bed silent, and as I fell asleep, I cried a bit. I didn’t want him to notice. The next day, we went on a weekend trip, and it felt like something broke between us. I blamed myself for everything; I never felt worthy of being treated well and loved. I felt like it was my fault, I wasn’t enough. I wasn’t attractive and desirable enough. After we got back home, he broke up with me, saying he didn’t love me. That was breakup number one. The next day he acted like nothing happened. I was relieved and emotionally all over the place. I just wanted everything to go back to normal. I knew he had feelings for me. After a month, he broke up with me again, saying it wasn’t working. I was angry and devastated; I threw the keys at him, told him to go fuck himself, and wrote a long message with a genuine farewell, disappointed that we couldn’t end things on good terms. We had happy memories together. After a month, he came back to me, admitting he made a mistake and wanted another shot. That was number three. Things never came back to normal. I dropped him after a few months as I wasn’t okay with casual. I wanted something more; I felt like he was stringing me along. Almost a year later, when I was in my “Blonde Era,” he came back, apologizing, begging for forgiveness. He said he loved me, introduced me to his parents. We spent a lot of time together; it was better than ever before. We were planning holidays together, drinking wine, wandering around the park, kissing, crying. I was so happy I thought I would burn from the inside. The last night we had sex, I saw us in the mirror, confirming a perfect reality. He said he loved me, then ghosted me one last time.

Tits never left the room; there were always three of us. Tits was both the cause and the priest of our relationship. Returning home from Tuscany, I felt like throwing up when I saw them together at the music festival. Betrayed, foolish, heartbroken—more than anything, I felt helpless. I couldn't do anything. After five rounds of breathwork and a meditation session, I texted him, "Are you okay?" I didn't want to jump to conclusions.

"Yeah, just things are weird. We need to see each other and talk."

"We can talk now, today, tomorrow. I'm back in the country."

Silence.

I wanted to sort things out as soon as possible to end my misery. A tiny, foolish part of me still hoped we could reconcile. A month later, we went out to dinner. I meticulously planned every detail I could control: my outfit and entrance. I made sure it would last. I was 30 minutes late—very unlike me, as he was always the one being late. I knew the anticipation would be torturous for him. I considered standing him up, but I’m too decent for that. My hair was a perfect storm of blonde curls, paired with a killer dress—long, see-through, from his favorite brand. I was the cool girl.

When I entered the restaurant, I saw pain in his red, stoned eyes. The fact that he showed up high made me furious. I lost the last shreds of respect I had for him. Looking at the Clown, I couldn’t believe I once found him attractive. Under the influence of The Tits, he had become a stupid, shallow, fake version of himself. I wanted nothing to do with him.

The Clown tried to carry on a cheerful conversation before dropping the bombshell.

“Yeah, so listen, we are not together…”

“No shit we’re not. I thought not talking to each other for three months was a staple,” I snapped.

“I can’t, I just don’t feel it. I tried, but it’s just not there,” he said, trying to keep a straight face. The fact that he thought he could win this game with me fired me up.

“Don’t fucking lie. I know how you feel,” I said.

His story wasn’t adding up because he couldn’t say he didn’t love me.

“And you didn’t put any effort into us. Confessing love is not enough; it’s not going to happen by itself,” I continued. He looked sad and couldn’t hide it anymore.

“Are you dating Tits?” I asked, referring to the traumatic evidence from Instagram.

“We’re hanging out,” he said with a laid-back almost smile. At this point I completely lost it and decided to destroy him like a bug.

“You are fucking pathetic. I don’t know what has happened to you, but you are not a serious man. You are acting like a child, back to parties, drugs. You are running away from yourself, from intimacy, and you are blaming this on me. You feel like shit with yourself, and that’s why you can’t commit—because your life is a fucking mess,” I said. He looked at me, unable to interrupt because he would burst out crying.

“And that fucking girl? She will ruin your life; she already did once.

“I would understand and wish you anybody else but her. You are choosing her over me?! You say her name, and I hear, ‘Sorry, I can’t be with you because I like to shoot myself with heroin and lick public toilets. Yes, that’s my real love, licking public toilets.’ It’s fucking ridiculous!” I continued. When you put it that way, it makes him look like a sick man. Because no one with honor and self-respect would allow such a toxic cycle to repeat. But it was a familiar story he felt comfortable with. The Clown loved licking public toilets more than he loved me. Even something like a sticky, covered with yellow liquid, hair, oil, and dirt surface was more worthy of his love and commitment than me.

We left the restaurant without touching the food he ordered for me. Standing on the street waiting for a taxi, a spark of desire ran between us, but he controlled himself.

“Look at me,” I said with a hungry, bitter despair in my voice. I wanted him to bend, break, show me any sign of affection to prove I was right, but he held back with pain in his eyes. He took off, and we never saw each other again. Once he stepped into the taxi, I burst into tears.

For a year, I didn’t masturbate because the antidepressants I was prescribed killed my libido. I was frozen in time, devastated. A part of me died in that restaurant. I was broken, humiliated. I stopped speaking to all of my friends, especially the mutual ones. I felt so ashamed that I got myself dragged into this drama and ended up fucked over. Memories flashed over me—the good, the bad. I thought I would never be happy again and that I was a failure. I couldn’t force myself to start dating again. I was afraid to leave my apartment for fear of bumping into him, her, or worst of all, them. Instagram gave me PTSD. I deleted all of my social media because it felt like a Pandora’s box of bad news—I was terrified that I would accidentally see a glimpse of Tits and the Clown dancing happily on my grave. I developed insomnia; even going to sleep was terrifying. I woke up in the middle of the night with thoughts that felt like sharp knives. There were a million of them, but one was the most apparent: “I can’t breathe.” It felt like every breath I took wasn’t giving me enough oxygen. My heart raced, and I couldn’t feel my legs or arms. I went to the hospital twice because of panic attacks. The Clown never reached out to ask if I was okay or even alive.

A year and a half later, I was pretty much over the situation and doing much better. I was also prescribed a new medication, which revived my sex drive. There wasn’t anyone new to fantasize about, and the last familiar dick I knew was the Clown’s. It felt safe. While masturbating with my rabbit dildo, it was going well, and suddenly I saw The Tits.

I was on the edge of crying or stepping over the line into pleasure. I was right there with them, totally intruding their privacy.

Now, I know I didn’t explain where the name Tits came from, but it’s self-explanatory, I guess—Tits had gigantic boobs the size of a head (each!). They looked like two gigantic bells, creating a body shape of a lollipop. The fantasy usually begins with the girl being on top. So, Tits is riding The Clown, her heavy puffs swinging up and down, slapping him in the face.

Ecstasy.

He is grabbing them, kissing, drowning in the voluptuous softness.

“You like that, huh?” I ask, sitting right next to them like a sex instructor. He doesn’t even look in my direction, his eyes fogged with desire.

“Say it, how much you fucking like this.” I grab his face by the chin.

“I love it,” he squeezes out.

“Good.” I allow him to return to the scene. A symphony of chugging and skin clashing in the background. Heavy breasts rocking side to side, up and down, and The Clown is hypnotized. Huge nipples, dark and hard.

“Change positions now, Tits, suck his dick.” Tits shifts obediently with enthusiasm. As she moves, she knocks my earrings from the nightstand onto the floor.

“Spit on it, then distribute the saliva with your hand. Slowly. Look at The Clown while you do it.” The Clown is moaning with pleasure.

“Now put it in your mouth, suck it.” Like a little doll, she follows my command. As her head moves eagerly up and down, she has to fix her hair to the side. I come up and braid it.

“Go deeper, take it all in. Gag.” He groans as she chokes on his cock. I want him to fuck her mouth, but he could never—too vanilla. He felt uncomfortable doing anything slightly violent.

“Enough, Tits. Go on your knees, bend over. Clown, take her from behind, doggy style.” I hate this position, so I let her do it. He loves it, though. I pull away to have a better look at them. It’s one thing when a man takes you from behind, controls his movements, and is a master of the situation, making you beg for more.

Another if you’re being stabbed with a wand repeatedly at a fast pace, like a rabbit chasing the finish. You can tell a lot about a man by how he dances. The Clown couldn’t.

So he fucks her with delight on his face, grunting with effort. Tits moans like a bitch, her gigantic boobs ringing like church bells on Sunday mass. Their skin slaps against each other, groans exchanging like the language of whales. They enjoy each other. I fucking love it. I’m slowly slipping away in rapture, watching the scene I directed. It’s perfect.

He twists her on her back, pulls her legs up, kisses her ankle, and penetrates her vagina, rejoining the race. His dick is hard and hot. Her pussy is drowning in fluids.

So is mine.

He spreads her legs, squeezes her boobs; his hands can only hold a fraction. I withdraw completely, giving away control to my actors. I become the observer, stripping The Clown and Tits of the sacred privacy of intimate moments. They are two silly puppets, driven by desire like animals.

The fat on her belly, her curves are trembling, cheering the player at the finish line.

“Fuck my tits,” Tits screams like a wizard casting a magic spell. He switches one last time, the cherry on top, sliding his cock between squishy rocks. She assists him, holding her own breasts, trapping his dick in the gap. He reaches the peak of hardness, peak of heat, and releases. His sperm on her face, blissful satisfaction on his mouth. She licks it off, like a cat lapping up spilled milk with gratitude.

The Clown falls on the familiar endless hills of curves. Like a child to a mother’s breasts, he latches onto them, absorbing comfort and security, before pulling away to his side of the bed, leaving behind sexual wavelengths. The moment he comes, that’s it, he is no longer there. Tits lays on her back, petting him on his head. He is completely unbothered, withdrawn, unable to give anything to his partner. He can only take. But Tits is okay with it. Her goal in life is to be with him. They are each other’s curse, karma, and blessing.

Next time I needed “me time”, I was bored. I just needed something to help me get into the mood, and the vision of Clown’s dick didn’t do it for me anymore. I was frustrated. I typed magical words in the Pornhub browser of the couple that reminded me of us, but I yawned with lack of interest.

“It’s over. I’m finally free,” I thought to myself.

I looked at my breasts in the mirror. I’d lost so much weight, the skin stretched, leaving tiny marks across them. I couldn’t sleep or eat for a few months. I looked like I’d come back from war. The first time I opened up to anyone about what happened between me and The Clown was eight months later. I had a new friend; at the time we barely knew each other, but for some unknown reason, I felt I could open up to her. Words flooded from me without control. I was visiting briefly to pick up a favor and stayed till late at night. I cried hearing my weak, shaky voice. I was angry, but at the time I was still craving for things to get better, for a miracle to happen. The desire to forgive him made me nauseous and ashamed of myself. I really wanted to stop loving him. My friend listened to me without any judgment, and I felt like a big weight was lifted off my chest.

The more I healed, the more I started forgiving and allowing myself not to love him. On a reasonable level, I processed everything and knew I needed to move on. But my body needed more time to adjust to a new reality. Memories slowly faded into oblivion. The fight between reason and attachment was over. The moment I felt I could do so much better and wanted to, I knew I was free. The spell was broken.

I don’t know why I loved him. In a perfect world, he could break off from his addictions, insecurities, and we would both grow in love and peace. But he couldn’t love me the way I wanted to be loved. He was weak, unable to face his shadows. He looked at me mesmerized just this one night in December. We felt infinite that night. But as obstacles came along the way, he could never cherish me, desire me boldly, he could never just be still and love. And because I didn’t know any better, I thought this was the only love I would ever get. So I tried, flexed, and molded. I loved, I trusted, I forgave. I pushed all my needs aside. For fuck’s sake, this man never kissed me! He could not play or tease. I was the one that made the first move and the one that made this relationship special. He could never just look at me, burn for me. He never touched me or celebrated my body. He was always running away somewhere, leaving me anxious and unfulfilled. I always had to make myself smaller so I wouldn’t scare him. It was the first time my heart was truly broken. It was the first time I really loved. And it was my first lesson of loving without wanting anything in return.

Next time though, I do not care for compromise. If you play, you play the big game—and I want everything. I made myself small and lost anyway. But do I really want something special? It’s just what I’m willing to give and be to the other person. Prior to meeting the Clown, I gave up on the concept of “big love.” I had so many failed relationships. But now, more than ever, I believe in love. I am a hopeless romantic, and I embrace it. What would this world be if big love didn’t exist?

Besides, I couldn’t be serious about being in a long-term relationship with a guy that is dressed head to toe in Balenciaga and doesn’t know who designed his clothes (or even how to correctly pronounce the house name). Everything passes, change is the only constant.