Abandonment

I’m unnervingly talented at engineering the rejection I claim to fear most.

She showed me everything, promised me more, and then vanished — not even a goodbye, just the silent void of a disappeared Tinder thread.

Too much eagerness to please me is, paradoxically, a turnoff. I have some theories about why.

Tinder is teaching me that not everyone treats interactions — virtual or otherwise — as real. I do, and it stings when that’s not reciprocated.

The ethics of openness, secrecy, and desire — and the icky feeling when someone else gets what you can’t have, precisely because they’re willing to be dishonest about it.

She used me to come, and then she vanished. I knew she would — there were tells — but I kept the screenshots anyway.

The catalogue of disappearing women continues.

Why peek-a-boo, and blindfolds, are, or can be, fun. But also why they can be over-stimulating.

An examination of all of the sensations associated with rejected or abandoned. Or imagining I have been.

In the end, Nastya made me feel unimportant. Not exactly undesired, just not prioritized, somehow disrespected. And so I ended things. Or let her end them. I’m not sure which.