Boobs.

He was obsessed with my boobs. He was one of my first few consequential sexual experiences in life and he just couldn’t get enough. He’d grab them as he pleased, he’d put his head on them and sleep in on rainy afternoons and he’d suck them till they hurt sometimes. I was in the 10th grade and if I’d leave my top button unbuttoned of this particular yellow shirt, it’d make him crazy.

I remember the first time he touched my boobs. It was my first real kiss and I’ll forever be indebted to him for making it as amazing as he did. I still feel tingly when I think about it - which admittedly, is often enough. There we were - I was pinned against the wall in a dark room and he kissed me like he’d loved me forever. His hand slowly slid inside my shirt and I think I was way too young to feel what I felt.

Like I said: tingly.

Years after we broke up, we reconnected and conveniently fell into a pattern of hyper-sexual behavior. We stopped making love, but we’d fuck all the time. He was still obsessed with my boobs. He’d suck me off in the backseat of his car and ask me for pictures when I moved to a new city. He’d pinch and he’d bite and I’ve seen him jerk off once to me just stroking my nipples softly.

We were really good in bed together, but I guess when you’re young and doped out, you need more loving than you need love. He was still obsessed with my boobs. I remember I’d met him once with someone else’s marks on my chest and he wasn’t impressed at all. He didn’t look at me when he came that day.

It’s almost poetic then that it was he who found the lumps in my breasts.

What Is Your Dream?

When did we grow up, exactly? It happened like a break-up almost. You know the kind of break up that happens over time - gradually. So gradually that you don't even realize when it sneaked up on you. You leave each other in such slow motion that when you finally cut the cord, you barely miss each other.

Also, when exactly can we officially start calling ourselves grown-ups?

I've never been scared of ageing though. There is some poetry to ageing, don't you think? Garlic-shaped under eye bags, grey hair, a cynical heart, frail limbs, regret, experience and laugh lines... Oh, I want all the laugh lines. I want to be one of those old women that people look at and say 'she looks like she's lived the life she wanted to for most parts'. And that she loved. And that she laughed... that she laughed a lot. She laughed to remember and she laughed to forget. And when she laughed, it filled the room because it was straight from the heart. Sigh. 

That is the dream. 

Same Time Tomorrow?

It usually happens to me a few moments before I sleep last night. You know, that time of the day when you're just contemplating your split ends, analyzing the weather, thinking about the one that got away, wondering if your parents will ever be able to be happy again, making up your mind about lunch tomorrow... that's when it happens to me. I think about writing and how I've spent another day without it. But as anyone who's ever known me would tell you, I'm good at convincing people of ideas that may not be their own originally and sometimes I see no harm in using the same tactics on myself. Why the hell not, right?

So I tell myself it's okay.

"No one reads your blog anymore. You scribbled some notes in your diary the other day. That surely counts, doesn't it? You do have a writing job, how are you possibly going to churn out any more words? Your thoughts aren't that important anymore. Maybe you only could write when you were in love with someone - and no, being in love with yourself doesn't count. You don't have a man to document; yup, no muse... that's the problem."

It usually happens to me a few moments before I sleep last night. You know, that time of the day when you're just contemplating your split ends, analyzing the weather...

Let's Dance!

He looks at me differently when I dance. I don't know what it is, but something changes in his face. His eyes have glint and he smiles almost unknowingly. He looks at me as if I am someone else - someone he wants to hold, someone he wants to kiss, someone he wants to pin down and fuck. 

But I don't blame him. 

I look at me differently when I dance. It's almost sexual. 

I'm Definitely Blogging Again!

So I spent my Sunday morning reading some very old posts on this blog. What it did was that it took me back in time. I smiled about things I hadn't in a while, I thought about people I'd blocked from my memory, random incidents came back to me and then I realized - I need to document my life again - or the lack of it.

My blog turned 5 in Feb this year! Happy birthday, baby. I love you. I really do. 

Love.

Everyone wants to believe in love. It sells. 

Regret.

I do live with one major regret - losing her because of my own doing. How could I let a decade of pure love and trust crumble to shreds just like that? What was I thinking? Was it just the need for "excitement"? Was it just the need for a story? I hope not. 

I've not had the guts to speak about this with anybody either. I feel like over time I've tried and blocked the memories in a way that even I don't remember for sure what exactly happened. Is that a healthy way of dealing with things? Who is to say?

The whole thing really did change me though. It started with the acute self realization of being a horrible person. If I could do it to her, why was anyone to trust me for anything at all? Slowly but surely that turned into a conscious decision of living a life I was more proud of. To go out of my way to ensure that nothing I do hurts anyone in an irreparable way. 

I've always maintained that none of the amazing things that have happened to me in the last decade would've happened if it wasn't for her. I still have her picture up on my wall because I can't possibly throw it away. Or her. She is still listed as my sister on Facebook, for crying out loud! And even now, I'd drop everything and tend to her if she ever needs me. 

I think about him and her every now and then and I hope that after all the drama, at least they've found the love and compassion to be with each other. I heard from someone the other day that he hates me and wants to kill me and somehow, I didn't even feel bad. It's been so long that his hatred seems like a small bargain for their happiness. And none of this is me being a martyr. 

Don't understand the point of writing any of this down. I guess it needed to get it out of my system. And this is the first time in years that I've found the gumption to do so. 

I guess all I really am is terribly sorry - to him, to everyone else who had to suffer without being at fault and mostly to her because she was my entire life. And I get that she might never want to forgive me... because I can't forgive myself either.