They need it. They need it and they don’t care where they get it, who it comes from, or if it’s any good. They just need it and they don’t even care.

And maybe it’s okay to give in. They tell us pretty things and our beds are warm at night. And maybe for a few hours we can play pretend. We’ve been doing it since we were little. Playing pretend and pleasing others, that is. So it must be instinctual… acceptable… expected.

We dress in an appropriately inappropriate fashion, whisper in darkened rooms, exchange goods and services. And it’s fair. Our innocence for their attention. Only the good and true can spurn their false affections. But why would we? Love is a fickle mistress and we challenge you to make her stay for longer than a night. A night is all we need. A night is all we have to give. Even the strongest of us could not bear to bare their fragile hearts to the rejection and apathy of the morning.

We watch them sleep. With every shallow breath they seem to become more and more human in our childish eyes. But we shake off the headache, the drowsiness, anticipating the confusion and regret in their wake. We scramble to silently pick our clothes off the floor – leaving as swiftly as we came. And suddenly we realize how cold the room is, without passion to heat our blood. And we become reluctant to gather our belongings, touching them gingerly with two fingers like they have become sullied by the impurity of our actions. But it’s only sweat and saliva. It’s just water.

We wring our hands and try to forget, burying ourselves in schoolwork and frivolousness. We use the weekdays as a refractory period. And somehow as the Friday night draws near our desperate minds can only recall the excitement, the spontaneity, and the sweetness. The smell of their skin lingers on us and we close our eyes and imagine being kissed on the forehead before we fall asleep. But god forbid it be the same one twice.

In passing, we look down and make sure our gazes never meet theirs again lest we become emotionally attached. We know what they are and what they are capable of. We entertain the thought of lifelong companionship, knowing all too well that they’re not ready. And when will they ever be ready?

But we shouldn’t complain. We use them and they use us. We like to think that we are the victims of their selfish conquests but they are just as much the targets of our objectification. Don’t call it what it is not. It is in this mistake that we most often find hurt. And it’s supposed to be fun, isn’t it? And it will be, so long as we all abide by the rules of impersonality.

We can’t push so we take what we can get. And if that means trading physicality for what we tell ourselves is comfort and love then, certainly, it is right and just. We both get our instant gratification. And it doesn’t cost us anything. Well, it doesn’t cost us anything we weren’t already predisposed to give away.
They pull at our hands and stroke our hair. They lean in deliberately as a physical indication of attentiveness. Suddenly our childhoods and favorite pastimes become pressingly important. We are interesting. And not one of us is any better than the other. We are perfect, for now. And in the now we feel simultaneously limitless, safe, and stable. They sweep us off our feet and the cold reality of a dirty counter bruises the backs of our thighs. But we’ll say that we fell. And indeed we fell – from grace and for their deception. Their clumsy hands push our shoulders down. We clench our teeth and stare at the ceiling, look past the roof and think to heaven. We think of silver angels and salty caramel and the golden lights of carousels, waiting for it to be over. And it will be soon, for we are insatiable and they are inexperienced. Never have thirty minutes passed more slowly.
But finally their hormones diffuse into nothing, and their muscles go limp while they pant into our damp hair. The air is humid and reeks of cheap alcohol, musk and depravity. We are empty and alone. We don’t want to be here. We find it exhausting. We physically and emotionally drain ourselves to compel them to spend the night. They are morally obligated to hold us gently and rock us to sleep – a futile attempt to return to us the innocence we somehow lost. But we readily accept, knowing that our debts have been paid. And we revel in the obscurity of our psychosomatic manifestation. It is so real.
And we’ll blame the media. The glossy magazines and advertisements tell us to be superficial and materialistic. Inanimate objects and extraneous aspects of our lives tell us we are inadequate and they make us cry. They tell us we are ugly and our low self-esteem fuels our reckless behaviors.
Or we’ll say we’re young. The impulsiveness is a celebration of youth. We’ll pass it off as a phase – typical and temporary. We tell ourselves that the codependence will fade with time and that we will mature. But we silently worry. And we are ashamed. Carbohydrates and credit cards can no longer ease the growing pains.
But endorphins will. Still, guilty pleasures quickly turn into addictions. And addictions turn into obsessions. And even the human mind cannot overcome itself. There is no treatment for this sort of substance abuse. And how do we even begin to admit to the prostitution of our virtue? The truth is that we don’t. We only seek to rationalize our incessant need for self-exploitation. When did art and music cease to provide us catharsis?
We are so tired of neglect and abandonment. So we sever the carnal from the intangible and suddenly we feel nothing at all. There are days when we would kill to feel anything – subconsciously looking to hurt ourselves. We don’t know how to be alone. And we often find ourselves dying to be noticed, and sad. So we sporadically erupt into tears, staining our white skin with runs of black mascara. We wipe it away with the heels of our small hands, only to smear the ink and sting our eyes. Our cheeks are burning now, with self-loathing, anger and embarrassment. The game is over. We cheated ourselves and there’s no way to flip the cardboard, pick up the scattered plastic and start again. We hurt too many people. We’re in too deep. We just can’t give it up. And then we remember, we already have.