In the Place We Stayed

When I checked into the hotel I wasn’t really thinking about it. There wasn’t a reason for it to pop in my head. The lobby had been remodeled; it didn’t look anything like when we stayed there. Anyway, I don’t remember the lobby, I remember the four walls that kept us company for a weekend. I remember the bed where we laid cradled together. I remember the endless sex, only stopping to eat and find water. Fuel for the next round.

After I realized where I was it all came flooding back. I mean, Jesus, did we ever love each other? We said we did, but I don’t know if that’s what sat in the heart of it all. I think we were both unhappy, looking for an escape. We understood each other enough. I guess that was all we needed to satisfy the emptiness. Looking back on it I’d compare us more to those two people in1984, having sex just to defy Big Brother. But at the time it was endless. And amazing. And exciting. And dangerous. It was so dangerous.

It was so stupid. We were stupid. We were unhappy and we didn’t care who else knew about it. Like we wanted to get caught. The memories of you sitting on my lap, legs wrapped around me, your tongue in my mouth, rocking back and forth in perfect rhythm until your head fell back in ecstasy…those memories are almost enough to hide the truth. From the outside someone would think it was a Harlequin romance novel. An unbridled passion they should aspire to.

That couldn’t be any further from the truth. What we had was empty. Maybe in another lifetime it would have been different. We never had a meaningful conversation. There was never any talk of what came after. Our affair was our protest to the shitty choices we’d made too early in life. My lust for your bulging breasts was enough to rival your thirst for my manhood and that was as far as it ever got. It was amazing, and sickening all at the same time.

If I could take it all back I would. I’d give up the times we snuck off during parties to satisfy our hunger. I’d return all the afternoons I skipped out of work to meet you for a few hours of physical conversation. I would, I’d give up all the memories I have of you if it meant that somehow we could have a second chance to give it a real shot. Unfortunately I think that’s why it’s impossible. A second chance would be a waste. There was never anything else to it and trying it again would bring us to the same place. We’d be just as unhappy as before.

Somehow I want to say I’m sorry to those past versions of us. I’m sitting in this hotel trying to remember which room it was. I want to knock on the door and tell myself to grab my shit and get out. I want to tell myself it’s not worth it so I won’t have to endure the flood of memories that will engulf me when I check in ten years later. I want my past self to understand that pussy doesn’t equal love. That blank, euphoric feeling you get addicted to when you orgasm isn’t worth it. I’d tell myself to just go get stoned, it’ll have the same effect.

So if you’re reading this, I’m sorry. I hope wherever you are you’re truly happy. I hope you never think of me. I want you to know that I may have loved you once, when we stayed in the hotel for the weekend. But you also need to know that you weren’t worth it. I wasn’t worth it.

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