Mona Lisa Smile
If she acts like a pornstar in bed, don’t fool yourself, she didn’t learn it with you. There’s always some sucker out there who had her when she still used her teeth in blowjobs, and there’s another guy out there who taught her that she liked being submissive in bed, you’re in third place at best.
Go ahead and tell yourself, “at least she loves me and not them”, but love is a fickle thing and if you’re still convinced that’s what will hold your relationship together, you’ve obviously never been truly in love. That true kind of love that comes from the pain of knowing someone can never be yours again. That sinking lonely feeling that says no matter how hard you try, you’re always going to be kicking yourself for not realizing how much luck you were in while it still lasted.
Look at me dragging on about love like I’m some kind of expert, truth be told if I knew the half of it I wouldn’t be up at 4 in the morning trying to tell you how bad you had it off would I?
No, this isn’t a story about love, this is a story about lust in the most reptilian of ways. That primitive kind of lust that never quite finds its mark but keeps driving you to the end of the world.
Men don’t go to pickup artist classes to learn how to take home any woman they want, they shell out thousands of dollars to try and have a chance at taking home that one woman that got away, the one they never truly had. But they don’t want to love them, they want those women to be something they were never going to be. That perfect marble statue, that exquisite painting, their own goddamn personal fucking Mona Lisa.
Which brings me to my current situation, a bad segue but I’m going to go with it and you’re going to listen because quite frankly we both know you don’t have anything better to do. If you did, well you wouldn’t be here, would you?
My memories of the women I’ve loved in my life never quite match up to what they were in waking life. Everything from their smiles, to the way I imagined their hair moved in the wind, nothing quite matches up to the way I want to remember it. The last time I saw one of them, though only a few (shall we call them short for brevity’s sake? Though they were anything but) years had passed between the last time we said our goodbyes, her smile was nothing like I remembered it. Had she aged trivially beyond my wildest imagination, or had I simply moved on?
She wanted me to believe that we were both just older, more mature (hardly), that we had both moved on in life and now we were destined to be sad old friends with a fading memory of being lovers somewhere in our shared past. I couldn’t help but feel, as I left the bar with my head hung low, that maybe I had blown it out of proportion. Maybe she never was that beautiful, maybe she never was that gentle, that smile perhaps was more toxic than intoxicating.
Had all of those feelings been a dream? Some might have called it a nightmare, and I might have too, but looking back if that was a nightmare, there were a lot more moments that should be counted as personal journeys into hell. No, I’ve not sunk that low yet, I keep reminding myself with each passing puff of a cigarette in the dark, no tomorrow’s another day and I’ve only just begun sulking, digging up old memories that I’m sure will stain the night in a much more perverse way than memories of her ever could.
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