It’s not so easy loving me.


You’re a guy with a seemingly charmed bachelor’s life.  By dint of luck and birth, you’ve never had to work for money. Your parents, who divorced when you were nine years old, plied you with material proof of their affection. And while these experiences have caused you to have certain issues about trust, love, identity, abandonment, and family, you are young and rebellious and living it up. Who wants to deal with personal issues when you can bask in the glory of decadence and sexual exploration?

Your teenage years are a whir of limo-chauffered parties that are held at swanky (albeit, sometimes seedy) hotels. A menagerie of pussy is yours for the taking: not just because you have a rock solid six-pack and a sinewy feline body, and you dress well, but because of your attitude. Your exhalations are the musky scent of “I don’t give a fuck”, and girls find that shit absolutely intoxicating.

You’ve traveled all of Europe. You’ve taken day trips to Miami, Boston, L.A., Chicago, etc., at a moment’s notice. You’ve driven to Maine from New York because of a craving for lobster. You know how to hotwire a car, climb a tree like you’re a monkey, and swirl butterfly knives around your fingers. You have an easygoing and nonjudgmental nature which gets bartenders and waitresses to cut your tab or erase it all together. People are always at ease in your presence, and you know how to use that to your advantage.

In your 20s, you continue living the high life, but have gotten tired of all the pomp and circumstance. Fuck wearing tuxes on the regular. Fuck $300 pairs of sneakers and $1,000+ watches. Fuck trying to impress people. You don’t care about how you look. Frankly, you don’t give a shit about much at all. You’ve always gotten what you’ve wanted and never gotten what you’ve needed, and you’ve reached a stage of apathy, cynicism and complacency that is like catnip for girls who see you as the Asian answer to James Dean. You are a rock star, minus the musical ambition and talent. Drugs, sex, and music define your life. You want nothing and therefore seem to have it all.

And then I come along.


It is the night that we met. We are huddled outside of a pool hall, smoking cigarettes and shooting the breeze. Our friends are inside, drinking, hogging tables, and flirting with each other. It is autumn. Your hair is long and greasy. Your clothes are baggy and unimpressive. Your signature leather jacket hangs off your shoulders, feigning motorcycle ownership. We’re having a good time getting to know each other. The familiar hair flips and side-eyes, giggles and back-of-the-neck scratches take place. There is a burning sensation of something resembling kismet. Then we stub out our stogs and walk through the glass door, and as I text the guy I’ve been sleeping with for a booty call, you start flirting with the cute waitress who’s been giving you the eye. Old habits die hard.

It’s a fun but seemingly uneventful night, and after everyone’s gone home, you return to the pool hall and get your dick sucked in the restroom by the cute waitress. While this is happening, you think about the last several hours: walking aimlessly around the city, laughing too loudly, eating and drinking, talking about everything under the sun, running through the underground tunnels of the subway as you and me and our friends compete in a spontaneous race with a group of strangers.

The cute waitress is deep-throating your cock, her lips wrapped tightly as she pivots around the base. You watch her blue-black hair swirl around like a cape of darkness and think about jizzing in it. You let yourself feel her tongue, the clumsiness of her teeth, the back of her throat. You start fucking her mouth, roughly, thoroughly, wickedly. And as you cum, you say my name.

That’s when you realize: something inside of you has changed.


The change comes slowly.

First: Hanging out a lot. Talking constantly. Inviting me to your mom’s house. Introducing me to your family.

Then: Showing me old photos, old scars, and old stories that you’d rather not remember and you haven’t told a soul. Whispering secrets as we sit side by side on your mother’s couch at 2 a.m. Bragging about my writing skills to people you don’t even really like.

Our courtship is innocent and sexless. We are open with each other, and somehow not afraid of the implications of oversharing. Interest gets piqued, caring evolves, and trust is invested. And that’s how it happens: we are dating before either one of us realizes that’s what we’re doing.


I don’t pretend to know how or why, but somehow, for some reason, you fall in love with me. You, Mr. Been-There-Done-That-Got-The-TShirt-And-The-Scar-To-Prove-It, fell in love with little ol’ me. And you’ve somehow managed to stay in love with me.

Even after my father rudely ignored you on the day that you met; even after he made you stand in greuling positions for way too long, in the name of “helping him with construction” (while he took his sweet time at Home Depot). Even after you got arrested while leaving my house. Even after I’ve been extra, voicing all of my concerns, doubts, frustrations, and disappointments with you and our relationship – ad nauseum and with accompanied booming voice and massive tears. Even after I made you travel almost four hours in a snowstorm – a portion of which, you were forced to run by foot because public transportation shut down – just to satisfy my craving for you. Even after all of our fights, all of our arguments, and the time I almost ran you over with my car. Even after I broke up with you over and over again. Even after I hooked up with other people during our breaks. Even after I made scenes and screamed and cried and made you look like the bad guy in public. Even after I called you names, cursed at you, and spat out threats, ultimatums, and unreasonable requests. Even after I’ve emphasized your shortcomings and demanded that you change for me. Even after I told you I hate you. Even after I deliberately hurt you with my words. Even after I unintentionally kneed you in the balls – several times, while sleeping. Even after I told the ‘nets a little too much about me, and you, and us, and our family.

Even after all of that, and so much more, you’ve always bent over backwards to right your wrongs and communicate as best you can. You’ve never requested that I be anything but who and what I am. You’ve always made me feel appreciated and adored. You’ve never looked down on me or made me feel insignificant. You’ve always been so proud to be my partner.

Somehow, for some reason, you’ve managed to stay in love with me.

And I want everyone to know: I am so very lucky to be loved by you.


2 responses to “It’s not so easy loving me.

  1. Shit, wtf mofo. You’ve got that ol’ thing back. LOVE it.

  2. 😀

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