collegiate diversion

I don’t really consider myself to be a lingerie kind of girl. I have indulged on a few occasions, in the clearance aisle at Marshall’s or at a vintage clothing store, skuzzy I know.

While garter belts post-20s era are pretty impractical, I don’t wear them very often and I like having them for me. It’s good for me, healthy for me. Something that gives me sexual confidence, like I need it. I do, actually.

I remember the last time we spent a weekend together, you talked about how sexy it would be to go shopping for something together. And it didn’t sound trashy or inappropriate, it sounded nice. Like we could indulge in my body together. The offer made me feel beautiful.

But then, and this was towards of the summer, towards the end of our romance which you told me was not a romance, you got busy. So busy, plans this, friends that, work here and there. I understood. Life = hectic. I know.

But I wanted you to look at me, like I love. The way you look at me that makes me come back to you constantly. I went to the store by myself, and I tried on a few different things, in clearance of course, but I wanted something great for you.

It was a fairly deprecating process. Trying on things that were too tight here, and not becoming there. Things that were strappy and slutty, thing that were elegant and lacey. I picked myself apart for you, I scrutinized over every square inch, for the perfect ensemble that would make you look at me and want me, maybe even love me.

I have never felt so alone, standing in the cold dressing room, watching my body react with goose bumps and all, wondering if you would still think I was pretty in the end, even with the lumps on my body.

I went to the register, and made my purchase. The woman behind the desk was very nice, telling me how popular the negligee I had decided on was, how she had it in two different colors. And this week it was half of! So yes, I tried to be excited. Told her I didn’t do this often, it was for someone so special.

I walked out of the store with my red slinky bag, and tried to feel proud of my purchases. I did, you would love it. But I made the mistake of calling you. Whipped out my cell phone, called you.

Me: Hey you. Guess what I just did?

And when I told you about the extravagance, you did not care. You broke my heart, surprise-surprise!, and I let you kill my confidence.

You (apathetically): Oh, that’s nice.

I was indignant though.

Me (indignantly, ending with a tremor of hope):I’d really like to see you soon, share this with you, you know?

You (coldly): Sam, I don’t know, okay? I’m really busy right now.

Oh god, and everything in the mall felt so tilted and bright. How had I played the game wrong, making you think I wasn’t so in love with you that you could never hurt me again? Keeping it casual and then throwing you off, so much that now you were running away?

Me (coolly, but not really): Oh yeah, well, whatever, you know, just give me a call. I’m around, just getting ready to maybe take a trip to New York soon.

I was trying so hard to let you know I wasn’t dying inside. And your goodbye was so curt.

But wait, this was your idea!

You wanted this. It was for you, and for me.

Now I am one of those sad people with a sad box under her bed, the tissue still wrapped around it. I never saw you after that, and spoke to you on the phone a few times since then. Not recently, it’s been three months of silence, since you confessed to being abusive. How could I not have figured that out sooner?

I couldn’t breathe that day. And since then, I haven’t really taken a deep breath when I think about you. You take my breath away, but why do people say that like it’s romantic? I feel like I’m gasping.

I just wanted to look good for you. And feel like I was good for you. Why couldn’t you have given me that goodness?

Good grief.

I mean, goodness.

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