“Just wanna see ya, just wanna feel ya.” Those are the words that made me go to a church parking lot in the middle of the night. At nineteen, I snuck out of my house for the first time to meet the most reoccurring ex-boyfriend in the world. He kissed me as soon as he drove up. We progressed rather slowly, though I tried to start quickly. He asked as I tried to unbutton his pants, “How do you know that’s what I want? How do you know I don’t just want to talk?” I told him very matter-of-factly that I knew that because he never just wanted to talk to me. It didn’t matter, though. I was there in that church parking lot because I was just as lonely as he was. I was in that church parking lot because where else will anyone touch me? We had our way with each other. I scratched and bit, he fucked me against his car. I kissed his chest, he grabbed my ass. We both tasted like sweat and saliva. He didn’t cum in me like he normally does. He kissed me before driving off, after offering to drive me home. I declined, because I felt like crying. I often feel like crying after sex, especially sex that gives me concrete burn. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy myself, that I didn’t want it as much as he did. I just hate that I can always fool myself into thinking this isn’t what he wants. “Don’t worry, it’s on my ass.”
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