Close Your Eyes and Think of England by Jon Paul Hart

I had slept with her once before, but that was almost a year before I met you. I knew exactly what I was getting into by calling her and so did she. I had only slept with her that once time, but I could still remember the sex being only mediocre. I mean I don’t want to say the sex wasn’t good, it just wasn’t spectacular. I guess sex is like pizza, even when its bad, it’s still pretty good. But this night wasn’t about me enjoying myself. You and I had only split up a few days prior and it was clear to me that I was not in the healthiest of places, mentally. I missed you and I hated you all at the same time, a feeling that I have yet to shake even all of these months later. In my frustration I called her because I knew that she would come, that she would be able to take away at least a fraction of the pain I was feeling. She would be able to make else and at the time I thought that anything had to be better than what I was feeling. I thought this only at the time, however.

When she was close to arriving I realized that I wished I had gotten preemptively drunk, in order to mentally handle what was going to happen. I looked vigilantly around for any alcohol I may have left unopened in my room. There was half of a beer behind my keyboard that must have been at least a few days old. I decided that I wasn’t desperate enough to drink it. This lack of desperation was something I later came to regret, because I really could have used whatever small amount of alcohol was left inside of that beer. I poured remains of the bottle down the drain and attempted to tidy up my room, which over the previous few days had become somewhat of a disaster. Food encrusted plates and forks towered over the mountains of soiled laundry laid scattered across the floor, swimming in the sea of trash that I hadn’t cared enough to put in a bag.

I didn’t have a long time to clean, but I was able to make a decent sized dent in the mess. I didn’t have time to make my bed, so I just threw a blanket over it leaving the naked mattress exposed at the corners. The room would still look messy, but at least it wouldn’t be disgusting.You know, it’s funny how much care people put into what people think of them and how they live. I had a friend whose parents always used to make him clean his room before the maid came.That never made any sense to me, I mean, wasn’t it the maids job to clean?I guess they didn’t want the maid to think they were slobs. I used to imagine a confused maid coming to clean an already immaculate house and not knowing what to do.

The time had finally come and she had arrived. I had an almost nervousanxiety about her being there. I felt like a man who had hired a prostitute and now wasn’t sure whether or not he actually wanted her. But it was too late now, she was already walking up the steps to my door. There was no changing my mind now. I let her inside and she followed me up to my room. I laid right down on my bed, but she wasn’t going to give it up so easily. She sat in the desk chair and started nervously checking her phone. She probably thought that if she acted too eager, she would come off as a slut and I would think less of her. Don’t get me wrong, she was a nice girl, pretty enough, not beautiful though. She was the kind of girl that you probably should date, but for whatever reason could never bring yourself to do it. At least thats how I saw her, I can’t really speak for my entire gender. As sad as it sounds, she just couldn’t stand out in my mind as anything more than someone to talk to or to fuck. I feel like a complete asshole for saying something like that, but it’s true. Maybe I am an asshole, who knows. Anyways, I don’t know if thats exactly what she was trying to do by sitting in the chair, but thats what it seemed like to me.

It didn’t take long for me to persuade her to join me on the bed (It wasn’t terribly hard either for that matter). The light had been conveniently turned off and I knew that all I had to do was make the move. I reached out into the darkness and pulled her head up to kiss her, but my to my surprise she pulled it back down and told me no. From the pain in her voice I could tell that this all meant a lot more to her than it meant to me. Even more surprising than her saying no was the immense wave of relief that washed over me. I realized that I just didn’t want to do it. I was let off the hook and it felt absolutely amazing. To keep up appearances I briefly faked disappointment and told her in a sympathetic voice that I understood. I told her how selfish I was to do that to her, to play with her heart like I was so cruelly doing. I may have been frowning on the outside, but believe me, on the inside I was ecstatic. I felt like I had just dodged an extremely uncomfortable bullet. While I was basking in my good fortune I was surprised yet again when I felt her lips against mine.

I tried to tell her that we shouldn’t, that it wasn’t fair to her and that I didn’t want her to regret anything. Unfortunately, she insisted that she didn’t care, that she would regret it either way so she just might as well do it. This put me in a very delicate position. I could either insist she stop and make things unbearably uncomfortable, or I could keep going and put off the uncomfortable tension until after we were done. I opted for what seemed like the lesser of two evils, and with that decision, we began.

The first thing that I noticed was the way her kiss tasted. It was sweet on my tongue, but overwhelmingly so. I didn’t like it at all. The next thing I noticed was the smell. Our sweats mixing together like some disgusting cocktail , it was almost as bad as the kissing. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, the screaming started. Now, I have often thought of myself as a somewhat passionate guy. I may not make much noise during sex, something you have pointed out to me many times, but as you also know, I appreciate being able to hear noises of excitement from my partner. This appreciation, as I learned, has a limit. To put things bluntly, this girl was the loudest bitch I had ever fucked in my twenty years of living. She went beyond beyond healthy enthusiasm, taking it to a level I had never experienced before. I couldn’t tell if she was having sex or giving birth. I couldn’t stand it, or her for that matter. The lines she would say to me seemed stolen from some poorly written porno.

It had become clear to me very quickly that this was a mistake. That’s when she said it. There is no way she could have known what she was saying or how I would respond to it, but either way when she said it, something inside of me snapped. To be honest, I can’t even remember what it was exactly that she said, all I know is that it was something you would say to me often. In it was in that moment that I hated her. How dare she say that? How dare she try to be you? She was so far from your level that she didn’t even know your level could exist. In a split second, I went from being just annoyed to furious. In retrospect it probably wasn’t her that I was mad it, it was more than likely myself that I was so angry with. Angry for calling this stupid girl over, angry for feeling like I had somehow betrayed you, angry for screwing shit up in the first place. And I was angry at you for throwing me away like I was garbage. Angry because I loved you and angry because you said you didn’t love me anymore. I was just angry.

Needless to say, all of this kind of killed the mood for me. I threw her off of me and she asked what I wanted from her, in her must seductive voice. I told her that sexiest thing would be to watch her finish herself. She asked me if I could even see her on account of it being so dark in my room. I lied and told her that I could. As I turned onto my side, away from her, and waited for her to finish, I could hear her queefing. Each one sounded like a little fart. She told me that it happened to her a lot when she touched herself. It probably would have been pretty funny if it weren’t so sad.

After she was done, I had to wait for her to leave. I was tired and tried dropping the hint that I wanted to go to bed but she just wasn’t picking up on it.

Actually, she probably was, but I’m guessing that she didn’t want to feel completely used, so she decided to hang out for a while. I am willing to bet that she has her fair share of insecurities. I mean everyone must go through it. We all have things that we have to assure ourselves aren’t true, that we’re only being paranoid. What’s funny , and I was funny in the most poignantly meta way possible, is that I could probably confirm the majority of her “paranoid” insecurities. I was just using her. I didn’t want her there. She was annoyingly loud.

I sat there babysitting her, being as boring as possible in the hopes that she would just get tired of it and leave. After a few extremely awkward hours, she finally got the hint and decided to leave. Maybe I felt guilty, or maybe I just felt obligated, probably both, but I walked her to her car. I told her to drive safe without asking her to let me know when she got home okay, something that I would always make you do.

She drove off into the night and I waved. On the walk back to my house, I was finally able to start relaxing. This terrible night had come to an end and I could just go to sleep and pretend it never happened. The plan almost seemed like it was going to work, but alas, nothing in life is that easy. When I was laying in bed waiting for the sweet release of sleep, you decided to text me. It was around half past midnight and my first thought was that you were probably drunk or high. You asked me if I was awake. I told you that I was and asked you what was up. You seemed to get regretful after that because you told me that you just wanted to say goodnight. I asked you if were sure that was all and you said yes. We exchanged a few inside jokes before saying goodnight and it felt just like old times. I didn’t know what to think about you texting me though. That whole time I had been under the impression that you had just thrown me away without a second thought, but there you were, thinking about me.

That was when I was hit with true regret. Anything I had felt before this was merely a taste of what I felt now. I hated her for trying to be you. I hated myself for pretending that she could be. And I hated you because you are you, without even trying to be. But the thing I hated most of all, was how much I could still love you. I write all of this not for you, but to you. I write it for myself. I definitely don’t write it for the other girl though, she’d probably hate me if she read this.

Photo by Michael Mytnick 

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