Rejection

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.

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

It seems I won’t get to consummate my fantasies with Lida. I haz a sad.

Once a john, always a john?

Rejection stings worst when it echoes old wounds. My readers let me know I had my head up my ass, and they weren’t wrong.

She looked like a porcelain doll — red lips, red hair, pale skin. I thought we’d become friends. Turns out I’d only ever been a customer.

Most of my dates are sure things. This one won’t be, and that means something much scarier than not getting laid: the possibility of being rejected not for my looks, but for *me*.

The distance between who I am online and who I am in the world protects me from more than I like to admit.

There’s so much more sex I don’t have than sex I have. Sometimes I wonder if it’s not the rejections I crave even more.

I can predict the outcome of a date with near-perfect accuracy, which only raises the question of why I sometimes go on the ones I know will be bad.