I am one of the models for an art-portfolio building school, and they send me to their different campus locations. I had never been to this one before, and when I looked it up, I still wasn't sure where it was. I followed the directions, and as I came near, I realized it was by my ex's house. When I got to the location itself, I saw I was less than a mile away from his house, just a few long blocks down the street from him. It was strange; I used to practically live at his house, sleeping over almost every night. I knew this area well, but when we broke up, I had no reason to ever come back, and as a result, hadn't been around for about two years. After my appointment, I made a small loop to drive by his house; it was so familiar, so strange.
I haven't had my heart broken too many times; it happens to everyone, sure, and considering how many relationships I have been in, I'd say I got off fairly easily. Don't get me wrong, I've been dumped plenty of times; in fact, I have only, to date, broken up with one person. The rest was me getting broken up with. However, of the many loves that I have lost, there is a handful that took a part of my heart with them, a few that I will never completely recover from, that I will remember for a long time.
This young man was a loser, and I loved him completely. He was in his early twenties and living in his parents' house, working in the family business, in a factory. He didn't attend school, and had no ambitions aside from sleeping with as many women as possible; when he and I met, he was almost at 150. I didn't mind; I was polyamorous by then, and saw nothing wrong with him sticking his dick anywhere he chose, so long as he was protected.
He bought me a Nintendo DS for Christmas, along with some games; the most expensive present I've ever gotten from anyone not related to me. We spent almost all of our time together, playing video games, reading comic books, having amazing, earth-shattering sex. His entire family could hear us, and bless their hearts, they let us be.
After almost an entire year of this bliss, I introduced him to a friend of mine from high school. She was an attractive gal, and he was a man-whore, so I figured they'd sleep together. In fact, I was hoping I could join in. He and I had already had one threesome, and it was amazing; I could only hope for another. They didn't hit it off, exactly; they each thought the other was hot, but their second time hanging out, she vomited on his bed; needless to say, he was less than thrilled. I was a bit relieved things didn't go too well; while I wanted everyone to just shag and have a good time, I loved him so much, and I couldn't stand the thought of losing him.
Things between them gradually improved. They started having sex, but he confided to me that he didn't find her to be that impressive. Yet, they continued to spend time together, go out together. I gave them their space; I knew that I was the Wife, and she was the Mistress. I knew better than to try to reign him in, stop him from having his fun. I asked not to be left out, though; they were welcome to their time together, but I'd like to see the two of them as well. I hoped for a triad to develop.
He became distant. It started subtly, but then grew. When we were together he was cold and distracted, when she was around he'd be downright verbally abusive. His family saw what was happening; we were at his house constantly, how could they not? His mother loved me, and she'd tell him off when he was a dick. I didn't make a fuss. I confronted him, of course, but I was the Good Wife in every way. I was patient and soft with him, explaining to him that I understood he was under stress but when he snapped at me it hurt my feelings and could he please not? Talk to me, tell me what's wrong. I love you.
It did nothing. I hoped that his moods would improve, but they only seemed to deteriorate, until one day, he dumped me like old rubbish. We stood outside his house and he told me that he was leaving me for her. He had hoped that his behavior would drive me away, spare him the chore of sending me away himself.
It felt like my world ended. I excused myself, and went to weep hysterically in my car. I felt like a piece of me was gone, a part of my heart torn out forever.
I have not been in touch with him; I see no reason to be. He betrayed me, acted like a complete bastard, and, needless to say, does not feel the least bit bad about it. I would not want him back, anyways, especially not as he is now. Last I heard, he is still living at the parents' house, still working at the factory, still not going to school, and on top of that has gotten fat. He was beneath me then, and the gap has only increased with time.
I suppose it is simply a matter of who hurts whom. I have fallen out of love with many, and probably would have, with time, fallen out of love with him, but did not get the chance to. He hurt me deeply, and today I felt a dull ache in my chest, a strange empty longing, as I slowly rolled past his house.
I left a piece of me with him, and he has not been the only one. I wonder, then, how many pieces I have left on me, and how many times can this happen before I'm all gone?
I haven't had my heart broken too many times; it happens to everyone, sure, and considering how many relationships I have been in, I'd say I got off fairly easily. Don't get me wrong, I've been dumped plenty of times; in fact, I have only, to date, broken up with one person. The rest was me getting broken up with. However, of the many loves that I have lost, there is a handful that took a part of my heart with them, a few that I will never completely recover from, that I will remember for a long time.
This young man was a loser, and I loved him completely. He was in his early twenties and living in his parents' house, working in the family business, in a factory. He didn't attend school, and had no ambitions aside from sleeping with as many women as possible; when he and I met, he was almost at 150. I didn't mind; I was polyamorous by then, and saw nothing wrong with him sticking his dick anywhere he chose, so long as he was protected.
He bought me a Nintendo DS for Christmas, along with some games; the most expensive present I've ever gotten from anyone not related to me. We spent almost all of our time together, playing video games, reading comic books, having amazing, earth-shattering sex. His entire family could hear us, and bless their hearts, they let us be.
After almost an entire year of this bliss, I introduced him to a friend of mine from high school. She was an attractive gal, and he was a man-whore, so I figured they'd sleep together. In fact, I was hoping I could join in. He and I had already had one threesome, and it was amazing; I could only hope for another. They didn't hit it off, exactly; they each thought the other was hot, but their second time hanging out, she vomited on his bed; needless to say, he was less than thrilled. I was a bit relieved things didn't go too well; while I wanted everyone to just shag and have a good time, I loved him so much, and I couldn't stand the thought of losing him.
Things between them gradually improved. They started having sex, but he confided to me that he didn't find her to be that impressive. Yet, they continued to spend time together, go out together. I gave them their space; I knew that I was the Wife, and she was the Mistress. I knew better than to try to reign him in, stop him from having his fun. I asked not to be left out, though; they were welcome to their time together, but I'd like to see the two of them as well. I hoped for a triad to develop.
He became distant. It started subtly, but then grew. When we were together he was cold and distracted, when she was around he'd be downright verbally abusive. His family saw what was happening; we were at his house constantly, how could they not? His mother loved me, and she'd tell him off when he was a dick. I didn't make a fuss. I confronted him, of course, but I was the Good Wife in every way. I was patient and soft with him, explaining to him that I understood he was under stress but when he snapped at me it hurt my feelings and could he please not? Talk to me, tell me what's wrong. I love you.
It did nothing. I hoped that his moods would improve, but they only seemed to deteriorate, until one day, he dumped me like old rubbish. We stood outside his house and he told me that he was leaving me for her. He had hoped that his behavior would drive me away, spare him the chore of sending me away himself.
It felt like my world ended. I excused myself, and went to weep hysterically in my car. I felt like a piece of me was gone, a part of my heart torn out forever.
I have not been in touch with him; I see no reason to be. He betrayed me, acted like a complete bastard, and, needless to say, does not feel the least bit bad about it. I would not want him back, anyways, especially not as he is now. Last I heard, he is still living at the parents' house, still working at the factory, still not going to school, and on top of that has gotten fat. He was beneath me then, and the gap has only increased with time.
I suppose it is simply a matter of who hurts whom. I have fallen out of love with many, and probably would have, with time, fallen out of love with him, but did not get the chance to. He hurt me deeply, and today I felt a dull ache in my chest, a strange empty longing, as I slowly rolled past his house.
I left a piece of me with him, and he has not been the only one. I wonder, then, how many pieces I have left on me, and how many times can this happen before I'm all gone?
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