Rejection

When you reject me, am I rejected? What lessons do I draw from my rejection? What is the meaning of my rejection? And is the rejection mine? Or yours?

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.