It’s always hard to see an ex. It’s even harder to see an ex that you’re still in love with, no matter how many times you tell yourself that it was just a silly summer fling, where both of you were only in it to get some experience before college. Although he promised that he really liked me for me and truly “felt something,” I sometimes found it hard to believe that it wasn’t just a boner he was feeling. We had sex together for the first time and it was awful and awesome at the same time. When we left for college, we promised to stay in touch, and for the most part we did. While we didn’t have to say it out loud, we both knew that we wanted the chance to grow up and learn who we are by ourselves without a significant other. But leaving things so unsaid manifested into a giant cavern in my heart and my head that I kept trying to fill.
We saw each on and off throughout the year, usually during breaks when we were in the same place. Every time we had sex. This only confused me more and solidified the fact that he probably only thought of me as an object with which he could have casual intercourse. At one point during the winter, it finally hit me and I was fed up. I was determined that night to get laid by anyone else but him. Sure, I’d hooked up with plenty of people throughout my first year at Middlebury, but he still laid claim to my virginity and that pissed me off. I wanted to prove to myself that I could have sex with any guy, and it didn’t have to be such a heavy emotional investment.
One night I got smashed, more than I ever had before, and set off to a social house with the goal of reeling in a guy. I stumbled in, and soon felt a body press up from behind me. I let him feel me up, turn me around, and make out with my neck as we danced to the pounding music. “Do you want to go back to your dorm?” I don’t remember if I ever vocalized an answer, but the next thing I knew he dragging me back toward Battell Beach area with a steady and forcibly strong hand on the small of my back.
We got back to my room and as soon as the door was shut, he pressed me up against the mirror, shoving his tongue down my throat and removing his clothes. He had a condom on before I had removed any article of clothing. I was thrown on my bed and he quickly drew my dress up over my head and pulled down my tights. It happened so fast, but before I knew it, he was in me and he was thrusting hard. After what felt like an eternity, he flipped me over, demanding in a rough voice: “Doggy style.” I obeyed. This is exactly what I wanted, right? He finally came and threw the used condom on the ground. When I began to lie down, he grabbed me again, forcing me to keep my ass in the air as he went for anal. Tears stung my eyes, and I couldn’t even look him in the face when he flipped me over and forced my hands to start rubbing his penis. He came for the second time, all over my hands and sheets.
When he left I curled up in a ball and cried. I was crying not so much about the fact that I had just had casual sex with a complete stranger, or that I was forced into having anal, or that my bed sheets were sufficiently soiled, despite all those being pretty horrible things. Rather, I was crying more because I was mad at myself for feeling like I needed validation. Validation by an asshole, no less. Validation to prove something that probably wasn’t even true to begin with. Now I know something about myself, even if I had to learn it the hard way. Physical pleasures don’t make you feel whole, whether they be casual or not. Emotional investment is key, but even with that you can still be left feeling raw. But the suckiest part of all is that, at the end of the day, I’m still in love with my ex. And I fucking hate myself because of it.
Author: Anonymous Middlebury College Student