The desire to pick up the phone and text is so intense, it feels like you would grow a rash or an additional finger.
You think maybe you should send a sweet but naughty picture.
You even stoop to passive-aggressive quotes from Instagram, which if we were to believe is full of cautionary tales of fuckbois and how we are to avoid them at all costs, especially pleasure.
But when you are truly free, in that you don’t need anyone to love you, pleasure is worth pursuing even from a fuckboi, especially a fuckboi, because at least the poor sod has with his dubious reputation and multiple dalliances, learnt how to really fuck.
You are clever. You passive-aggressively post it on your Instagram handle. The universe will decide who reads it.
Naturally, the universe decides he won’t. Nor will he. And the other He whom you really want after everything, at least for closure, maybe an apology, well, He has gone fishing and for good measure blocked you. And you don’t fight it.
But the fuckbois can be given attention. Pleasure, when it comes without the side order of pain, is a thrill, a delicacy now. And you know you have earned it.
So the urge is mixed with this twisted rationale now.
However, your heart is a closed door. Sex is safer with toys. You are in your late 30s and playing the game now, when you have finally learnt the rules – put your fucking self first – is tedious. Like a constant itch on your palm. It’s easy to reach, to scratch, but also you can’t scratch your palm. So you don’t. So you pull back, flick a channel on Netflix and chill. Alone.
Because this is what love and sex in the late 30s is like: restrained.