“Perception, my dear. It’s all about perception.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Let me give you an example. When we fuck, I wrap my arms around his shoulders and hold him tightly, burying my nose in his neck. He thinks it’s a sign of passion and uncontrollable desire. I do it, so I don’t have to look at him [..]”
I don’t mind giving you my body – it’s the least I can do. It [hardly] means anything. It would cost me far more to make you fried eggs in the morning. Is this confusing you? Think of it this way – giving you my body is the same as your telling me that I’m special. Both cost less to the person giving them; are only meant as means to an end and end up costing more to the person receiving them. Kind of sick, isn’t it? Go ahead and stroke your ego – having my body is as far as you went (although I know it’s more than enough for you). The guy is happy – he gets to perpetuate the self-deceit of being a capable and experienced lover and so is his partner- she’s heard the absurdly shallow and blatantly untrue confirmation of being a fleeting desire in the eyes of a man. Both achieved at the expense of the naivety (or so they would like to think) of another human being. What we don’t know is that instead of outsmarting the other person, both are screwed over – he will say anything to sleep with her and she will do anything to hear what she wants. Both following the logic that the goal justifies the means, especially when the same will get you what you’re aiming for at absurdly low-cost maintenance fees. He can proudly parade his conquest, unaware and not caring that he never had but a blow-up doll in his hands and she can blissfully think she’s worth more than any other woman in his life, oblivious that the words she just heard are always the same, only the girl is different. Then they can both go and buy books with sugar-coated puff that explain how she’s from Venus and he’s from Mars to bring the worn-out bodies and drained souls [some] comfort. However, what they should really be paying for [if anything] are books telling them they can never meet at the point of being together.
If our need for companionship becomes so dire, we’ll stop just long enough to fool each other into believing we have anything in common. And we do. Lies. Stay with me and I will keep lying that you’re ‘the only guy I’ve done [insert random sexual act here] with’ or ‘the best I’ve ever had’, sustaining your ginormous unjustified ego of a conqueror and you’ll keep lying that I’ve ‘meant to you more than any other woman in your life’ and ‘you’ve never loved another the way you love me’ to encourage me to keep my feet off the ground and my head high in the clouds (where it usually is most of the time anyway). We’ll call that love and
build ruin our lives around it, complaining that everything falls apart, but forever denying the obvious fact that anything built on a lie is fleeting and ends bitterly. For it’s always lies that bring people together and it’s the truth that drives them apart – that’s simply the way things are and always have been.
Life will pass and we will fill it with promises of love and closeness; we’ll listen to songs, read books and watch movies about it and that will have to suffice. In this lifetime at least. In the mean time I have to remember to keep on lying to you that you’ve conquered more of me than anyone before you and you’ll have to keep on fooling me into believing I’ve meant more to you than anyone else in your life. Seems like a fair deal to pass time.