Rejection

She flew too close to the sun — not me, but her own desire — and then she was gone.

I ended things with someone today, which shows how I don’t use women. Then I posted about it here, which shows how maybe I do.

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

Three rejections in one day, and I went to a coffee shop instead of a massage parlor.

Poof. She was simply gone from my list. The kids today….

I’ve written a lot about being rejected, but what about when I’m the one doing the rejecting? It happens less often than you’d think, and more awkwardly than I’d like.

The Amazon says goodbye, and tells me about the man who owns her pussy.

I called Angela a slut, imagined her fucking other guys, and managed to turn my own fear of rejection into an insult. I owe her an apology.

Rejection makes me want a blow job from a stranger and a cigarette, in that order. Instead, I’m just sitting here, feeling it.

The sting of rejection is a gift I’d never get if I were monogamous. I’m not sure I’d call it a gift I *want*, but it’s one I need.