nixsight

She says:

I’m sick of it.

Sick of the way you skulk around like a sick puppy. Sick of the way you style your hair. Sick of the fact that you expend more energy and enthusiasm in the act of choosing which shoes to wear than you do in following current events.

She sighs, sadly.

And I’m tired. So sick and tired. Of the way you kiss me. It’s like, the same way you kissed me at the start, that super-hot, wet, sexy way of loving me… but it’s exactly the same. Like you found a pattern of gestures that got me wet, and stopped applying personality or charisma to the process.

I’m sad that you’ve applied the same tried-and-true technique to making me cum.

But I’m devastated that you’ve done the same with our conversations.

She smiles, wryly.

I liked it at first that you only had eyes for me;

Her eyes narrow.

But now i don’t trust the fact that you don’t flinch when my girlfriends stay over, and don’t look twice when they walk between you and the TV in their skimpies.

Because I know that they’re hot.

And I don’t think you wanting me counts for much if you’ve just stopped noticing hot women altogether.

And I really appreciated the effort you made when I started wanting to explore the more unusual fantasies I was having. But it’s become clear that you weren’t really that invested in having fun with it, or bringing your own imagination along. And it was always supposed to be about both of us. And about passion, for ourselves and each other.

Not just about keeping me and my inconvenient, rampant libido appeased.

And I absolutely hate that you consistently, obliviously reduce my most deeply felt, most private, most complex secret desires to the level of peculiar modes of penetration.

No matter how hard you were trying to contribute, no matter how sweet-natured your efforts may have been, it just shows that you haven’t been paying any attention.

And do you have to refer to them as “kinks” all the time, with that smug grin on your face? It isn’t a joke… it’s my sexual freedom of expression. You know how prudish my background is… it took a lot for me to open up about this stuff to you, and the least you could have done was take it seriously…

(I’m not going to miss your music, either, but I don’t want this to get personal…)

So, thanks for the birthday card, and the gifts, but…

(She says, palms out, invisibly prompting and pushing towards the door)

… I think you’d better go.

And take the donkey, and the hooker with the strap-on, and the bucket of goldfish with you.

But, uh…

… You can leave the chocolate. And the flowers.

… And the Jesus shaped dildo.