For fuck’s sake, why did she believe this could be more? It is always the same. I’ve yet to find a woman who says, “I’m developing feelings for you, and I think we should stop seeing each other.” Throwing words like, “we should move in together,” in the middle of fucking is not the way to move forward.
Honestly, I just can’t seem to do things right. If I don’t tell them up front that we are only fuck buddies, I get shit when they want more. If I do, they ignore me—because they think they can be my exception.
A friend of mine says that my issue is due to the way they see me. A lonely, introverted bachelor. Women think they have just the right pussy to save me from my sad life—and change me for the better. First rule about choosing a partner, don’t expect people to change for you. You are only attracted to them and your hormones are wanting more of him—or her.
That doesn’t mean you are in love. It means you are passionate about them. You are physically attracted, but if you want the person to adapt to your needs and you won’t accept them as they are, that’s definitely not love.
Love is extremely complicated and should be handled with care. I choose not to deal with it.
Albert Einstein once said, “You can’t blame gravity for falling in love.”
I have nothing against relationships. In fact, I had a couple of those during my teens. Love is messy. Relationships are complicated. The logistics to hold onto an emotional partnership is too complex and dreary.
It requires more than dinner, sex, flowers, and chocolates. Both parties have to agree to more than just monogamy. They have to surrender to one another and walk blindly into a place where they only exist with each other. I can’t imagine the effort that is required to maintain something like that, and to what end?
Look, it’s not like I’ve been shying away from love. I tried being part of a couple. At fifteen, I dated Wendy Robins. She lived across the street from my home. She was cute. We got to second base, but her family moved when the school year was over. I never heard from her again. At sixteen it was Sandra Boyt, one of my brother’s friends. We had a good time, until I refused to go to prom, and she dumped me for some other dude—I can’t even remember his name.
At this point in my life, I’m practical. When I go out with a woman, I tell her right away, This is just sex. I’m not looking for anything permanent.
The whole concept of forever works for a lot of people—until they break up or divorce.
Forever is not for me.
It has nothing to do with some Little Prince syndrome—that’s the technical term for the condition. The Peter Pan syndrome sounds too cliché—and let’s be clear, it’s not a mental illness.
Why did I adopt this philosophy?
It’s a combination between my parents’ messy divorce, the fact that I’ve never been in love, and that once upon a time I was named the future of technology. People who I never met flocked around me. It wasn’t easy to tell apart friends from a foe. My circle of trust became microscopic.
My twin brother insists I’m like this because when we were born, I got the brains and he got the heart.
Maybe he’s right. It’s fucking unbelievable that I’ve never been in love.
Never.
Is there such a thing as falling in love and I’m immune to it? I’m living proof that it is real.
The other day, I was at the dentist’s office, and the receptionist was listening to some ‘dating expert’ on talk radio—or maybe it was her computer. It really doesn’t matter. The point is that this woman was discussing the subject of falling in love with her partner—again. I was pretty confused at first, until she explained further about a so-called love cycle.
According to this ‘authority in love,’ a couple has to keep the flame burning for each other. Tend to their relationship the same way farmers do with their lands. Each season is different. They plant, they water, they harvest, they clean, so next season, they can start all over again. When a caller asked her what falling in love meant, her answer made me laugh.
According to this ‘expert,’ falling is different from being in love, and it all starts with a feeling that makes someone want to be next to the person. Falling is embracing the out of control, overwhelming emotion that accelerates one’s heart into the speed of light. One knows that they’re in love when they make a special place in their life for that other person.
Living in love (yes, that’s how she phrased it) is different, though. It means that someone stays willingly with their significant other despite their flaws and even when they drive you crazy.
If you are in love, you want to stick around the other person, even when you don’t like them at times.
I wanted to tell her, Lady, your advice is shit. If someone doesn’t like the person they are with, they should move on.
Why would I choose to be around someone who I can’t stand when it’s clear we are not compatible?
It’s obvious that woman is from another planet or hasn’t met me. My guess is that she got some fancy degree in shit-talk that allows her to spew crap. She only knows a few people. There are billions of humans in this world, and we don’t all fall in love or even need it to live.
According to that woman—and maybe all the women I’ve been with—I’m shallow because I can’t see past appearances. It’s not about accepting flaws or loving what’s inside. This world is complicated enough to also be forced to stay around people who don’t make one’s life better.
I just do what I love the most. Sex.
Sex is the only reason why I bother finding fuck buddies. Let me tell you, I deliver a fan-fucking-tastic time. But that’s exactly where my problem begins. I was taught to be thoughtful and caring about what’s entrusted to me.
Women trust me with their bodies, and I do my best to treat them like queens. But it never fails. They always want more. It doesn’t matter that we both agreed it’d be casual. They demand more from me. Then, they urge me to reciprocate their feelings. I’m physically and emotionally incapable of following through with what they want from me.
In my opinion, love exists. It’s just not for everyone.
Most of all, it’s not for me.
Let’s be logical. Not everything in this world is for everyone. We are all different. I am the kind of guy who doesn’t fall in love. I’m not heartless. Just because I don’t wear my heart on my sleeve, it doesn’t mean that I don’t have one. I’m wired differently.
Some men struggle to describe what love is. Me? I can’t even feel it. Which brings me to this exact moment when the woman I’ve been fucking for the last couple of months makes the unilateral decision to modify our agreement—and if I don’t comply, it’s over.
“I thought we had a connection,” she repeats. “I’ve never felt this way before.”
Can we pause for a second?
What Martha infers is that I’m the first lover she’s had who isn’t a selfish bastard. I’ll let you in on a little secret. Sex is more enjoyable when you put your partner’s pleasure before your own. Personally, it turns me on to know that the woman I am with is high on endorphins because of me.
Now, fast forward to this moment. I can tell her one of two things: “You should be careful about who you invite into your bed,” or “I was upfront with you when I said this won’t be more than sex.”
There’s no use in discussing this any further. It’s over.
I put on my pants and walk toward the staircase. I slip on my sneakers before climbing down the stairs.
Why do people complicate everything?
Life is simple.
Relationships should be easy, not some crazy affair where you have to play a part. Perhaps that’s why I don’t fit well with anyone. Sometimes, not even my family.
One thing I can guarantee, I’ll never apologize for being myself.
Women expect romance. Most of them define romance as all those clichés that happen in chick flicks. Guy running through an airport to ask for forgiveness because he is a dumbass. Or
through the streets of Manhattan. Let’s say I follow the entire narrative of romance and make a woman fall in love with me. I mean really fall in love, not just the ‘high on endorphins, please give me another dose because I can’t live without an orgasm’ kind of feeling.
What happens next?
I can’t guarantee that I’ll be in love too. And If I do fall, what am I supposed to do with it?
Hypothetically speaking, I let my guard down, give away my secrets and my entire life to one person. Nothing guarantees that the person I trusted will not come back to destroy me.
Again, I’m not speaking from experience. Unless my mother counts. She left my father when I was five. However, I’ve witnessed many divorces and broken relationships to know what I’m talking about. I’ve watched people falling apart, helplessly, as their worlds come crashing down.
In all fairness, I accept that not every relationship ends up in catastrophe. There’s my father’s second marriage. He found a good woman who makes him happy—more like they make each other happy. My stepbrother and his wife are yet another couple who seem to be content. I don’t like them, but they’ve been together for ten years.
That’s when the theory about soulmates comes into play. Because these couples make it through everything.
Maybe the idea that there’s one person who imprinted with another before the beginning of time is real. Or, perhaps, it’s some false ideal we want to grab onto so Hallmark can sell more Valentine’s cards during the month of February.
Either way, I’m not sure how this heart-soulmate-love business works, or if it’s even real. Honestly, I don’t care to find out. The closest I ever got to that moment when a person sees someone and feels like they were punched in the stomach and can barely recover was when I was still living at home.
There was this girl I used to see around the neighborhood during the holidays. Perfect smile, always wearing colorful clothing. She had a whole happy thing going on for her. Every year, I’d see her around and get that sweaty-hands-heart-pounding feeling. I never knew where she lived. Getting closer would’ve been kind of creepy because she was young or maybe too short.
Who knows?
I never met her, and yet, sometimes, I still think about her smile.
It was contagious.
When you saw her, you just smiled with her.
No one has ever made me smile the way she did. Maybe that’s why I can’t open myself to anyone or settle for anything but the best. That feeling that closed up my throat when I saw her… I’ve never felt it again.
Continue Reading Wrong Text, Right Love
Didn’t Expect You
Nyx
All my adult life I’ve been fighting to be somewhat normal. To be the most conventional one in the family—or the only one for that matter.
My parents are…different. My three siblings… Well, they aren’t like our parents, but they stand out easily in any crowd. Not me. Or at least I try to stay away from people’s radars, unlike them.
While we were growing up, my parents believed we could learn more from the world than in a classroom. Were they right?
The jury is still out deliberating.
One thing I can say is that my dad is one of the wisest, most clueless men in the world. I understand how ambiguous that sounds, but my father isn’t like any conventional sixty-three-year-old guy. Octavio Brassard is unique among any men. He lives by his own rules and has a license to teach young adults about ancient civilizations.
According to Dad, we’re here to learn how to love, how to live, and how to preserve this world. Not that we, the human race, are doing a great job at any of those things. He insists that the most important moments in our life happen unexpectedly. That’s why we have to stop and smell the roses. Maybe one of those special moments is the one that transforms our lives.
In that split second, we could find our destiny.
He’s a philosopher, a poet, and one of the most loving people I know. He pushes us, his children and students, to believe in ourselves and always pursue our dreams. Take life by the balls. And no, my father doesn’t believe in censoring our language.
Something else I learned from my parents is that family comes before anything and everyone.
This is why I’m spending my weekend working with my oldest brother, Eros, who like my father, is a dreamer. He doesn’t like to think much about the bottom line, rather what he can do to change the world.
“I could be with Persy drinking margaritas,” I protest, as I go through the partnership proposal he received from LNC Investments.
I could spend my time with my sister, who I haven’t seen that much during the past couple of months.
“Persy is actually drinking some strawberry lager Dad made,” he corrects me. “It tastes like fruity shit.”
I glare at him. “I like fruity shit.”
“Fruity doesn’t mean refined,” he informs me. “You two need to learn to drink better brands and less sugar.”
Sighing, I finish reading the contract. We’re never going to agree on the subject. He thinks spending a thousand dollars on a bottle of single malt is better than drinking margaritas. We’ll have to agree to disagree.
“Listen, you shouldn’t be signing this,” I suggest. “Persy and I will amend her book deal and—”
“It’s going to take me years to recover her investment,” he interrupts me. “These guys don’t need the money right away. She does.”
He is right. Our sister lent him her savings. The amount included the advance she received from Blackstone and Morgan Press, the publishing company that bought the rights to her next book. A book she doesn’t want to write because it’s off-brand and forcing her to divulge more about her life on social media than she usually does. I’m trying to fix her current contract so she can change the title and the subject. But if we can’t come to an agreement, she’ll have to give the money back so I can terminate the contract.
I sigh.
“Thirty-five percent is a lot,” I say, changing the argument as I continue reading through the partnership proposal. “We need to negotiate the terms before you sign anything. I understand that they are practically financing the entire operation, but…”
I pull out a calculator and run some numbers. “You’re not earning any money for at least five years. Where are you supposed to live and what are you going to eat?”
“Funny that you mention this,” he says, giving me his boyish grin. “You have an extra room in your house.”
“No!” I answer with determination.
I have two guest rooms. I love my siblings, but I can only stand living with them for so long. Just earlier this year, Persy stayed with me for almost six months and even when we had fun, we both concur that we needed our own place. We’re too old to have roommates. I can’t imagine what it’d be like to live with Eros for five years—or until he gets his shit together. I’m going to become his maid, parent, and… No, thank you.
“Nyx, at least let me explain my plan to you.” His pleading voice doesn’t change my mind. In fact, I cross my arms. “I sell my place—”
“You have two mortgages on that house. You owe more than you’ll get for it. You have to be sensible about your finances,” I remind him, shaking my head. “Why do I always have to sound like the oldest one in this family?”
He shrugs. “You always liked to boss me around while we were growing up. Show that you were responsible. It’s your thing. Just like Persy likes to analyze people. I watch over you three.”
He’s right. That’s been our dynamic since we were kids. It might have to do with the way we were raised. Our baby sister, Calliope, doesn’t fit in this dynamic, and maybe that’s why she doesn’t like us so much.
“No, we’re going to go back to these Chadwick brothers and we’re going to cut you a deal that will be beneficial for everyone,” I state. “Do we have an understanding?”
He salutes me. “You’re the boss.”
There’s this idea that the pers
on we become is partly defined by the order in which we come into our family. It’s part of the sibling hierarchy. The oldest becomes the teacher to the rest of the siblings. Whoever established that theory didn’t know the Brassard siblings. We are four, one brother and three sisters. Eros is the oldest. I’m the second out of four. Then comes my sister, Persy, and Calliope is the baby.
In theory, Eros should be our teacher. The one who takes care of us. Most days I’m the one who is rescuing everyone and saving them from not fucking up their lives. Maybe it has to do with my parents’ philosophy. They believe that making mistakes is what forges our character. I keep telling them that there are mistakes, and then there are times when people should avoid failing. Letting others commit errors so you can learn isn’t always smart. What if it’s something that can bankrupt us, get us thrown in jail, or kill us?
Earlier today it was my brother. Thankfully, I was able to change the original partnership he was about to sign, and he got to save his home.
More like, I won’t be having him as a roommate, and we won’t end up killing each other because he’s a slob.
Now, I’m on my way to talk some sense into Calliope. Most days I’m thankful for Persy. She’s not only the most down to earth of my siblings, but she’s also my best friend. Maybe the whole theory about birth order has some truth to it. She’s only ten months younger than me. We have a connection like not many do. We understand each other, and sometimes we even guess how the other one is feeling.
As I’m about to ring the doorbell to the apartment complex where Callie lives, there’s a person coming out who lets me in and even smiles. I blink a couple of times and shrug. What happened to security? I climb the stairs to the fourth story and knock on the door.
A male voice answers, “In a minute.”
Not sure if the guy understands how long a minute is because only two seconds later the door opens. It’s a tallish guy. By tallish I mean under six feet, lanky, and in a dire need of a trim. No, I don’t have anything against guys who have long hair. There are some that look hotter with a mane. This guy though, he needs…a shower, a brush, and clean clothes.
Until Next Time Page 20