Well, it happens to everyone. Right?
A few days ago after comparing war stories with the ladies and consuming one too many drinks, I spent the night with an ex.
“I love it when that happens!” my girlfriend cooed when I confessed. “Everyone is happy because they got laid, and your number doesn’t go anywhere!”
It is nice to spend time in charted territory, so to speak. I’ve never been a fan of the one-night stands for the obvious reasons: the safety issues, the slut factor, and the morning-after awkwardness. If I’m long overdue to “rock the casbah,” you better believe the first person I’m going to call is an ex-boyfriend.
When I look back at my dead relationship with this particular fellow, who I dated off and on for a good amount of time, I realize that sex was really the only thing that brought us back together. We were the quintessential couple who loved to fight and … well, you know. I just saw it as passionate, but being older and wiser, he really couldn’t deal with my insecurities and brushed me aside multiple times, which just made me want him even more. Now being a little older and wiser myself, I like to truly believe I am over “us,” and am able to reunite for a final fling to cap off our journey together.
Unfortunately, when you hook up with a former flame, it’s about more than sex. It’s a glimpse into what could have been, an open door into what could be. No matter how done the relationship is in your mind, kissing those familiar lips transports you to a time when you both were happy, when you were in a meaningful relationship, when you were in love. That’s a tough memory to shake while lying in bed with your head against his chest, satisfied and drifting off to sleep.
Of course, the morning after is like the waking up after the journey in Oz. The happy, Technicolor world of spooning and small kisses on the back leads to uncomfortable silence and the coordinating of rides home and future phone calls. It was fun while it lasted, but there is always a nagging feeling that maybe, just maybe, this time we could make it work. I’m a stereotypical female; I see everything emotionally and have never been able to separate love and sex unless I’m forced to, but even then I’m just faking it.
With hope still in my heart, I called him a few days later to see if he wanted to hang out and let’s just say, he had company … and it had a vagina. As much as I pride myself on being realistic and mature, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t knock the wind out of me. I excused myself as quickly as possible, threw the phone across the room, and crawled into a fetal position on the couch. “You left Oz a long time ago, Dorothy,” I thought to myself, “and there’s no returning this time.”
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