I’ve erased this a couple of times.

The gravel underneath my shoes was mocking me; all of a sudden the high heels were comically high, obviously trying too hard. I felt like I walked into a party with a blaring red short dress on and everyone else was in beige coats and long black dresses. He has never really made me come, I found myself thinking.  But in that moment, as I lingered awkwardly waiting for him to say something poetic, I wanted to have sex with him. This is problematic-it should have been the greatest moment of being turned off by him. I should have left his house disgusted and not shifted my weight from one foot to the next waiting for some grandiose gesture from him. I have to reflect more on this.

The details of what occurred are boring and slightly embarrassing.  Know this: sometimes my nights the last few months (years?) have ended in scenes that in some small way can be written about in a light that perhaps, in some small way, can evoke something in me when i reflect on them later.  There are other nights you go to see someone you are sleeping with, monogamously, but in a grey area, and your night ends with you screaming about a box of Biore nose pore strips that are clearly not. fucking. his and most definitely not. fucking. yours. 

I need to slow down and figure out who I am again and what I want.