In the summer of 2012 I had become involved with a young girl named Lorelei, during which time I had also begun a quest to defeat my own loneliness in the worst way possible, at the time she was not to know her role in it, which of course was to occupy my bed and distract myself from myself.
She wasn’t much to me then and purposely so, that I can say as easily as my own name, we stood to be around each other, and most importantly, inside each other. A pretty girl who upon more inspection rose the line to beauty, all her real qualities however lay beneath her sweetly fitted clothes and they whispered my name as she walked just in front of me, or when she lay unaware on top of my bed.
I wanted to touch her for ever. I didn’t want to hear a single word from her unless it was my own name, and she would say it so invitingly, so weakly, that I could stand nothing else but it’s tone pouring from her lips and digging from her finger nails as they scratched each letter of it into the tensed flesh of my back.
I thought nothing more of what we were doing except that we both knew what we wanted and were sure of what it meant, which was only in the physical inspiration for carnal pleasures. I didn’t treat her well, I didn’t treat her badly either, I just didn’t treat her how I should have. I wouldn’t give a second thought to cancelling or ignoring, of going days without talking, led by unnecessary machismo, believing us safe in a shared contract. I used her like she used me, except it wasn’t the case, she wasn’t using me she was letting me.
I later found out that she let me because she loved me, and sadly in love you take what you can get even if that means less then you deserve. For Lorelei it was less than she deserved.
She loved me and I didn’t even notice.
I was happy to forget myself inside her. She couldn’t have been happy in return, how could anybody? I was a selfish boy, greedy and ignorant, and she fell in love with that version of me, the worst version. It had gripped her and she felt love for it, for me. It’s something I can only ever remember. How she must have hated herself for it.
I need to tell you that that boy wasn’t me. Though age would have me be a man, then, with Lorelei, I was just a boy undoubtedly, men do not deny like that but boys do. I had become convinced in discarding love, something that had always wandered so easily into me, for a pathos I had foolishly romanticised for years. I chose cheaply because I had never done so before and believed it was an experience I needed to taste, and one I continued believing for so long after Lorelei had given up and flew away.
When I eventually knew what I had done to her, I felt as though I had somehow tricked her into believing that I wasn’t something to be loved like that, that what she felt for me was wrong. And it was at the time, for who I was being wasn’t the truth. I lied a child out of me and let it take the reins while I kept who I really was tied up in the back.
Maybe she thought she saw me for who I really was? Maybe when we burned together in our beds she caught sparks and flashes of the man not the boy? When I carried on taking she must have become convinced she was wrong and so left for good. She loved me then, and I love her now, as the man, not the boy.
But of course, she had never met him.
It’s seems unnecessary to regret decisions I was once so convinced in, but it’s unavoidable to just know I could have done it all so differently, so much more truthfully, and spare the heart of a girl who couldn’t help herself. Or at least take it how a heart deserves to be taken, as a straight swap, nothing more, nothing less.
Poor Lorelei, young and in love, having knew me then.
How stupid she must have felt.
How stupid I feel now.