Posts Tagged ‘women’

I hate being called “babe.” Except when you drunkenly did it. Then I kind of loved it.

You can get away with that sort of thing because I know you actually respect me.

And because it makes me laugh because it doesn’t suit you to talk to women that way.

We both know I’m not your babe. But in fleeting moments, perhaps.

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i have fought with myself over love.

i have fought to love–to love hard, to be free to love. i have wanted to love people who couldn’t love themselves. i have cared for their growth. i have tried to help them find themselves. i have loved when i could not be loved in return.

i have fought to keep my love silent for fear of being vulnerable and just another silly girl. i never wanted to be just a girl. i have goals and dreams and hopes for myself, and i’ve been taught that love and independence don’t mix. scratch that. not even love. relationships and independence don’t mix. after all, aren’t i supposed to trade my reproductive capacity for protection?

you. i want to rely on you. i want to depend on you. fuck this paradigm of diminishing co-dependency and elevating self-reliance. depending on you isn’t a weakness in me. it reveals all that we can and are willing to give to each other. i don’t want to be self-reliant. i want my health, my happiness, my life to be wrapped up in yours. i want to build something with you, for us to grow together, to nourish each other. we are better with each other. we are better on each other, in each other. through each other, we are better.

i cherish you, and i will fight for us.

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As we break up and I feel hate for you and then miss you and reunite with you I get sad and relieved everytime I get my period because a creature made by you and me could have united us forever and I have the stupid fantasy a child made by you and me in a moment of sex and connection would inspire or force or compel us to communicate better and treat each other peacefully and with love because we would have done something made something beautiful together instead of just our passion and fighting and passion and fighting ugly cycle but I am relieved when my menstrual blood flows too because I know having a child with you would tie me to you forever and all the feelings of suffocation and being silenced and not cared for and not loved and all your lack of affection and lack of respectful communication would make it torture to have to try to raise a child with you.

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Passionate, aggressive sex with you over the last several weeks had given me a relentless yeast infection that burns and itches. Monistat suppositories have not helped and have caused more agony. I read up on natural remedies and then asked for your help when I found out about the magic that is apple cider vinegar.

Basically, for prevention and gentle soothing of yeast infections, you can take a lukewarm bath and pour a cup of organic raw apple cider vinegar in the water. But if you have crossed into the land of no return. If you are in agony like I have been and have not been getting any relief for over a week. You need to just pour that shit right on. It will not be pretty. Ow!

Here’s where you my beautiful man come in. We went to the grocery store at 11 o’clock at night to pick up the vinegar. Back at my apartment you changed into white t-shirt, shorts, and sports socks. Tired and ready for bed, you looked like a cross between a grandpa and a sexy sports coach. You had my small camping flashlight hanging by it’s rope around your neck. I couldn’t stop giggling nervously and putzing around my apartment like a putz.

You got impatient, “What’s wrong with you? Take your clothes off and get over here.” You patted the towel on the floor in front of the couch where you were sitting. I got down on my back, you took my legs up onto your thighs, and pulled me closer to you by my feet. “Are you ready?” as you turned on the flashlight, leaned down from the couch, and took a look at my angry vagina.

“Hmmm, it looks really red. You ready? Let’s get started.” You spent a half hour pouring apple cider vinegar all over my vagina and even in the hole. I could never have done it myself. It burned like a motherfucker and I would never have been able to get the perfect angle you did. You didn’t laugh. You weren’t grossed out. You were serious and nurturing and compassionate and gentle. We snuggled in bed afterwards. I never trusted or let anyone besides a doctor do anything like that to me before. The vulnerability was extreme.

I felt as safe and loved and partnered at that moment as if you had put a fucking diamond ring on my finger. I adore you.

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Sixteen years ago, we were college roommates and instant best friends. You’ve shared every secret, every syllable of your life with me as I have with you. I know you love me, I feel it in my soul and when you tell me you do it makes my stomach flip.

We are soulmates. So, it’s a strange and cruel twist of fate that I’m a lesbian and you are straight.

Now you are married with a beautiful child and a house in the suburbs and you call me to tell me how you don’t love your husband anymore and you want to leave him. He doesn’t understand you like I do. He doesn’t deserve you.

You know I’ve had a crush on you since the first smile you flashed. When we were drunk and you’d spoon me, I thought maybe you felt the same way too. But you’d just laugh it off, knowing that I’m “safe” and playing as though you’ll always have my heart…and you always will…as it breaks.

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dear letters for loves readers!

send your favorite summer love story to lettersforloves (at) gmail.com

the better yer letter, the more people read, the more people write.

it’s like a trend.

much love!


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I have slept with 31 people. Man! Some soulless fucking went on. Kanye West said “I been tryin’ hard to right my wrongs. But they helped me write this song.” He’s right. Regret is bullshit. I got a few friends and acquaintances who say they have no regrets. For real? Wow. Good for you. I would like to wipe away the sexual stain of at least 50% of those 31 experiences. Yeah, I got regrets.

I didn’t know how awkward and unsatisfying the sex and the aftermath would be. Sometimes my instincts told me “Stop girl! Keep those pink panties on!” But I went ahead, had that 3rd drink, and fucked the dude anyway. Why? I don’t fucking know. I hate myself? His face was pretty? I was lonely and horny and hadn’t had sex in a long time? Hope springs stupidly eternal? I felt fearless and magical flirting and making out?

The magic disappeared as soon as I gave the green light and the fucking got started. A bunch of those dudes made me feel invisible. You could tell once the ride started they were only concentrated on getting to their own fireworks. No eye contact. Grunting to themselves. Nasty! I was just a fuckhole at that point. Sad! Am I the only woman who’s had this experience or am I oversensitive? Do men ever feel that lonely and unsatisfied just getting their fuck on without any other connection?

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