13h • 0 replies
I've went thru my 2025 notes and
counted 31 different women I fucked from apps, and the number feels both like a trophy and a cold, hard indictment of my own emptiness. Each one is a blurred memory of a different face, a different apartment, a different reason I told myself this was the last time. There was the yoga instructor who smelled like patchouli and talked about her chakras while I was inside her, the lawyer who fucked me with the same cold, calculating efficiency she probably used in a courtroom, the sweet-looking librarian who begged me to choke her. I can barely remember their names, but I remember the details of their bedrooms, the taste of the wine they poured, the specific way they gasped or moaned. I told myself it was about freedom, about not being tied down, but scrolling through the list, I see a pattern of running. I'm not collecting experiences; I'm running from the possibility of a real connection, replacing intimacy with a series of fleeting, anonymous conquests that leave me feeling more alone than ever. It's a hollow victory, and I don't know how to stop.
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