… was I?

3136-000025They say that when you get your heart broken, your biggest insecurity is born, an orphan feeling that has little to do with reality. One friend, a girl who worked for the Financial Times, told me that when her boyfriend left, she thought it was because she wasn’t smart enough. How anyone could make her feel stupid is beyond me. For me it was a physical fear. Was I not good looking enough? It disappeared, or so I thought, the day I saw him with his new boyfriend. A balding, fifty something pot bellied dwarf with no soul. I’m not strike you down in the street good looking, but come on you’ve got to be kidding me. It’s been a few months since. Chest’s stopped hurting, and although it’ healed funny, the heart is now pumping at normal speed. But every now and then that feeling comes back unannounced, like a stubborn cold-sore. I met someone recently, a co-worker of a friend while at dinner in one of those trendy restaurants than ban smoking. A few dates later this demi-god tells me the story of a recent break-up. No he isn’t in love with him anymore. Really! Doesn’t think about him, doesn’t even talk about him. Even after all those years. He’s over him. Did he mention that they just broke up? His bedroom walls are the same colour as the rest of this fake-Tuscan palazzo, a smouldering cigarette burning nearby, and a kiss on his mouth that tastes like bourbon and ash seems to suck all the air out of me. Shirts flying everywhere, a belt-buckle clinking on a tile-floor and then the sound of elastic rubber snapping on naked skin. The coldness of lube being applied, heavy breathing, a big thick stubby hard cock. A pelvic dance. Then nothing. Did he stop or did I? He can’t go forward. His boyfriend’s face in the dark. A thousand apologies, the cold of the corridor. On the drive back home, in the darkness of the early morning, a tingling sensation on my heart like a cold-sore on your lip.
Was I not good looking enough?

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