The closer I get to my holiday back home, the longer and more eventful the days seem to get. It was -again- one of those exhausting weeks. Sex, alcohol, failure, fun and existentialism, combined. From a surprisingly good Tinder date that ended up in rejection, to a very successful wank in a fertility clinic. From a crowded Gay Pride Parade in the center of Copenhagen, to weeping over my ex in the kitchen, on a sunny Thursday morning. And M, who is an intense experience in herself.
“Why do you look at me like that?” asked M, laughing.
I stopped and tenderly caressed her face, staring into her eyes. “Look at you how?” I asked.
“With soft eyes.”
I laughed. “There’s something about your eyes, Marie. They look beautiful when we have sex.”
We remained in silence, her green eyes gazing mine. I didn’t move, nor did she. The curtains were completely open and anyone passing by could contemplate the naked intimacy of that moment, of that bed.
“I want you to fuck me hard,” she said, suddenly. I tried. Couldn’t quite do it. And, by failing to do so, I could understand that I am not the man she wants, nor I’m sure I can or want to be that man. Yet we are back to square one. Fucking is on the table again. Apparently.
Where is this all going? I keep wondering, as if I would get an answer if I ask the same question enough times. But I have tried that before and I never got an answer. So I broke up. The “Why did she have to fuck me over?” question will never be responded. Not that it matters anymore.
Sigur Ros keeps playing in my earphones, but I can’t milk more stories right now. I’m too tired and really considering not going to the gym tonight, although I promised myself I would. I also promised myself I wouldn’t see Marie again. And that I was going to stop using Tinder. And that I wasn’t going to have kids. And that I would never have a full-time job. And that I was gonna eat healthy. And that I was going to be happy and leave anxiety behind. But one can only promise. One who is decadent, that is.