That's Not The Clitoris: A Love Story (And Other Honest Assessments)

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Help Me Not Be a Human Being

The anxiety of the sexual act is my sexual act: a love story.

My sexual preference is me. Actually, escaping me. In every obsession, Internet obsession, make‑out, f*ck, and actual relationship, I've embraced my fellow man (and woman) on the highway of low self‑esteem in the hope that I could be convinced of my own OK-ness and/or disappear.

What I have sought in love is a reprieve from the itch of consciousness — to transcend myself and my human imperfections. But this has yet to happen. What has happened, instead, is a lifetime of fictional love stories; fiction, in that I have perceived every new experience through the veil of my own insecurities. Here are some of those stories.

I'm in love with you and you don't want anything to do with me, so I think we can make this work: a love story.

Just saw two ants drown together in my bathtub and it reminded me of us: a love story.

The saddest part of fucking you in that motel room wasn't when you took a sh*t in the bathroom before we f*cked, and not when I had to put on Tupac to mask the sound of you sh*tting, and not when the smell leaked out into the hotel room, and not when I licked behind your balls after you took that sh*t, even though you hadn't showered but when I went into the bathroom an hour after you took the sh*t and there were still sh*t marks in the toilet bowl...

And I thought about how if it had been me who took the sh*t I would have absolutely gone into that toilet bowl with my bare hand and a piece of toilet paper and wiped it down, and how maybe this particular brand of self‑consciousness regarding sh*t marks is a developmental variation in response to the fundamental differences in expectations placed upon men versus women in this society, though that's probably too reductive: a love story.

That's not the clitoris: a love story.

The anxiety of the sexual act is my sexual act: a love story.

I definitely thought I was a lesbian until we dated and then I thought I might just be asexual, or not asexual, actually, but even more deeply f*cked up than I ever knew: a love story.

I never liked myself: a love story.

Sorry I fell asleep while you were going down on me: a love story.

One night I dreamt you had a gherkin instead of a penis, and when I saw you at work the next day I thought I was in love with you (the thing about spending eight consecutive hours in a confined space with the same people day after day is there will always be that one person who appears more special and attractive than he or she actually is).

So when we ended up having sex on three different occasions I said never again after each time, though when you licked my ass it felt so intimate that it made me want to buy you beautiful shirts, and when I asked you if you would ever want to be with me for real you said yes: a love story.

I wanted to build a fire with our shadow selves, and burn there or be erased by the narcotic of limerence when I turned your face into a fire: a love story.

I don't even masturbate to you anymore because it's too sad: a love story.

My therapist calls you pancake ass: a love story.

It's not that I'm shutting you out when we have sex; I just need to fantasize about obese women caring for one another's vaginas to have a good orgasm and you're a midsize man: a love story.

Just because you have beautiful eyes doesn't mean you're deep: a love story.

When you said, "Don't obsess, just feel the feelings," I said no: a love story.

Sorry you're having a really good life and are contented by it: a love story.

I don't want to be older and wiser  I want to be younger and hotter: a love story.

In the dark you looked so human in your skin that I called you human in my head, and I didn't want you then and felt relieved: a love story.

When you said that your sexual ideal is romantic sex where both partners say I love you as they are coming, and then do that with a different person every day, I totally agreed ... except I only wanted to do it with you: a love story.

I feel like my life has a lot of caves and they are all filled with your hair: a love story.

Let's pretend you're capable of being who I think I need you to be: a love story.

When you tweeted that the best you could ever arrive at is probably the leader of a sex cult, I guess I should have seen that as a red flag: a love story.

Well, I was clearly more into that than you were: a love story.

I think it's time for you to drop back into my life, ruin it, then disappear again: a love story.

The best part of f*cking you in that bathroom at the Rivington Hotel was when I went to Sephora first and did my makeup using all their testers for free, especially the Yves Saint Laurent lip lacquer. (P.S. When you said, "Let's f*ck at the Rivington Hotel," I thought you meant you were getting an actual room): a love story.

I'm sorry that when you asked what you could do to help me have an orgasm I said leave the room: a love story.

Sometimes when I need to comfort myself (all the time), I think about your lisp and it creates a womb skin around my brain full of barbituratesque nectar, the side effects of which includes a horny surge in my second chakra and p*ssy, and then severe withdrawal: a love story.

The man just wanted to put his dick in things and the woman wanted her p*ssy to be perfect: a love story.

I only had sex with you to get you to stop talking about your art: a love story.

I wish I had a dick, too: a love story.

I never really liked you but everyone else was worse: a love story.

Secretly it hurt my feelings when you were outed as a sexual predator, because for me you couldn't even get it up: a love story.

I've been on your Facebook page for five hours today: a love story.

Imagining that you're going to come back to me is my favorite way to spend the day: a love story.

I still can't believe that someone as hot as you has validation issues, but I also know that being a very sensitive person on this planet is painful and some of us are built like sieves, or have holes where any external validation just pours right through and we never get full...

And I also know it's ultimately an inside job anyway and no amount of external validation will ever be enough (though damn, it can feel good in the moment, and it sort of makes me mad at god, like, OK god, you built me like this so teach me how to validate myself in a way that feels as good as when a boy does it or the Internet does it, because there's always a cost when a boy does it or when the Internet does it): a love story.

Yeah, all my orgasms were fake: a love story.

We're going to spend the rest of our lives together in my head: a love story.

When I send nudes, I like to receive a full dissertation on their greatness: a love story.

Remember when I yelled out, "I just want to eat p*ssy!" in your car and you said I might actually be a real lesbian, and then I ate your p*ssy better than a real lesbian but was still only bisexual: a love story.

I pretended you were this blond girl named Kirsten every time we had sex for two years: a love story.

I don't want to get off the Internet or consider anyone else's needs: a love story.

I miss the sex that I thought was love, but you knew was just sex: a love story.

I tried to get revenge for having had a crush on you in high school and you not wanting me, because I got a lot hotter after high school, so I made a plan and the plan was that you would want me and I would kiss you but not sleep with you, yet somehow by the end of the night I ended up begging to suck your dick: a love story.

Tell me if I'm texting too much: a love story.

No teeth on the clit, thanks: a love story.

I thought we were good for each other, but my friends said you were crazy, and I don't really trust my taste in people (or in anything, actually, and there's good reason for that), so goodbye: a love story.

Sorry we couldn't get it in my ass: a love story.

You said spirituality couldn't be bought, but I felt really holy eating egg salad sandwiches in your apartment: a love story.

The G‑spot isn't where you thought it was: a love story.

When you said you just wanted it to be a one‑night thing, I kinda hoped you meant one night over and over and over until we die: a love story.

I guess you aren't going to rescue me from my life: a love story.

Text me back: a love story.

This is an excerpt from SO SAD TODAY by Melissa Broder. Reprinted by permission of Grand Central Publishing, New York, NY. All rights reserved.

This article was originally published at SO SAD TODAY. Reprinted with permission from the author.