Most Likely, I fucked Your Boyfriend.
By Girtrude Belle
Most likely I fucked your boyfriend. Seriously. Most likely I’ve even fucked your husband. And most likely, he was the one to seek me out, say nothing about your existence, tell me how he’d been in love with me via Facebook for years, and only after getting in my pants, he most likely told me about the tragedy that is your codependent relationship and, oh, about your impending motherhood. Or maybe he didn’t mention you at all and only talked about how long he’s dreamed of having me. Yeah, most likely that’s exactly what he did. And most likely I was in a sex-having mood and so I fucked him.
Most likely I fucked that cool guy from out of town that you’re trying to hook up with. And let me tell you, he isn’t really that cool. He’s whiny and neurotic and you won’t know that from just hanging out with him. He’ll only get that way later. He’ll suck at holding his liquor (or pot), he’ll keep touching you when it is not called for and asking whether you’re “ok”. He’ll get paranoid and act like a weirdo and you’ll end up babysitting him reluctantly all night. If you’re lucky he’ll apologize later (meh). Most likely he won’t. Being around him will no longer do for you what his broad shoulders do now when he’s coolly unattainable. Instead, it will depress you and make you wonder who turned off the sun. His infantile neuroses will make him worry so much about himself that he’ll forget even simple gestures of common courtesy or kindness. If you tell him you’re sick with the flu, he’ll make a tasteless sexual joke instead of asking whether you need anything. He’ll even fail to say “feel better.”
I probably fucked that guy who’s tall and handsome and has lots of friends, but who’s deeply insecure about his intelligence and his flabby man-boobs, the product of too many years of booze and tobacco. Half the nasty crap he’ll eventually say to you in private–and oh does he ever get nasty in private–will have more to do with all that than with anything objective about you. And the guy who likes to suck dick or cross dress or get spanked occasionally or, hell, all of the above. Which is no biggy, only he can’t tell his long-suffering wife and, except for parties and family vacations, they lead pretty much fake and separate lives. And the hyper-sexual guy who’s bright and successful. Only his substantial…passion will eventually turn out to be a sublimation of his deeply misanthropic, unethical disposition and total lack of an imagination. He’s compensating with sex for an impoverished inner world.
Most likely I’ve had all of these dudes, as well as the nice, good-looking guy who thinks sex should always be slow and gentle and just “doesn’t see the point” in changing this. Ever. And the small-dicked stout guy who’s really fun in bed anyway, for a while. And the big-dicked guy who’s great in bed but has a flat sense of humor and commitment issues that could fill a sizable tome. And the handsome pilot with the bedside manner of a horny and angry fourteen year old. And the globe-trotting rock star who screws like one but who spews preposterous nonsense in conversation. And the tall, stylish, “polyamourous” entrepreneur who’s a pathological narcissist. And the foreign model with the IQ of a…model. Most likely, my darling, in my twenty-some years as a practicing babe, I’ve had most men you’re interested in, or their dopplegangers. Which is why you should listen.
Nobody–I repeat–nobody, is as cool as you think they are, in case that wasn’t clear from the above. Most people who make you feel like crap about yourself, feel like crap about themselves. Most couples you’re jealous of, live in (at best) a boring mundanity you’d never ever trade your life for. Which is to say, you aren’t missing out on anything or anyone. Believe me: FOMO, the fear of missing out, is responsible for a good portion of my sex life, if not for most of it. Which makes it damned ironic, then, that all I got for it was the certainty that none of us are in fact missing out on a damned thing.
But, fun, you say! Yes, but fun can be had when you simply decide to have fun. To be fun. You see, you don’t need to be pretty (truly pretty girls were some of the saddest girls I’ve ever met) but you do need to feel pretty! You don’t need to be the center of attention, but you can be if you choose to. You don’t need to bed every hot guy that crosses your path, but it’s not that difficult really and, while certainly entertaining, not that mind-blowingly fascinating.
If wild parties is what you want, they are there for the taking – just start asking around. And, yes, you can be a nondescript fat girl with pendulous breasts and have more fun than a long-legged model. All you need is to be free and to love what your’e doing. And to ooze love and sex and joie de fucking vivre. That shit’s contagious. I’ve seen it. I’ve done it (and failed to do it, and seen the difference).
And if monogamy is what you’re after, then you certainly don’t need Mr. Awesome over there, because his hangovers are a bitch and he’s mostly insufferable when not in a social setting. What you need is to love you. Yes, you heard me right, you need to love yourself so much and so well that you’ll only accept this same kind of love from another person. And then, my darling, that person will be Mr. Wonderful, Mr. Most Wonderful of All. So wonderful in fact that, most likely, I didn’t even fuck him.