Love?

You told her that you loved her. In the middle of fucking. “I love you.” She told you, “No, you don’t.” You insisted that you did. Later on, she told you that she fucked others. First one person, then you asked, “Did you just fuck one other?” She did not answer. You told her that you were seeing others, fucking others, scattered around the country, there were five you said. Five others. Then you asked her, “how many?” She said, “Five.” Five was the magic number.

She was not just seeing you. She did. For a while, then it broke her heart. You knew how it felt. Heart, could be so easily broken, with the right person, with the right way, you knew, you would be afraid too.
You knew she always loved you. That was the one thing that you didn’t expect. You knew she’d love you until the day she died. Until the day you died. That was not in the deck of cards. Love, had nothing to do with fucking. Then it just happened. Love was meant for those who got married, had perfect house, little children and all that. You had none of that. She had all of that. Then somehow you two had to fall in love. In a twisted, unimaginable way, you knew it was the way it was always meant to be.

She belonged with you. You belonged with her. There, as you told her that you loved her just so, after she’d told you that she too had been fucking around, you told her again, “I love you.” There and her head turned towards you as you continued to thrust yourself into her, and you saw the smeared make up, and there she was crying. Her voice broke. “I don’t love you.” She said, and you insisted on it, “You do. I know that you love me.” And you kissed her as she laid flat on her stomach, and her head slighted tilted.

“I love you.” She finally said. “And we are no longer together. We broke up.” She continued.

Love came in all shapes of forms, all sorts of imperfections. The most fucked up love, the most imperfect love, came from the two of you. You knew that, she knew that. You both knew that. But no one else would. The world would be a better place if people could love one another and still fucked others.
That was the strangest part. You knew you had her, she didn’t know you had her, and she didn’t know if you’d still exist after she broke up with you. One day she was minding her business, the other she was falling in love, unexpectedly she was in your life in such an incomplete, haphazard way.

You knew why you loved her. She was like you, in so many ways, she was the twin you never had. She was like you. She needed constant admiration, she needed constant reminder of herself being fabulous, while she needed attention, she did not feel whole until she had other lovers, but she was incomplete without you.

“When I was twenty, I read this book by Henry Miller. There was a scene in the book, about young hookers getting fucked by many different men. Men who fucked and pissed in those hookers’ pussies.” She’d say such things after you had fucked her the same way, and she’d say it in such a nonchalant way, as if she was simply telling you about the park where wild flowers were blooming and little ducklings are waddling into the pond. Sex with her was unconventional, yet it was the most natural thing to the two of you.

She may be fucking others, she could not fuck others the same way she was fucking you. If that was not love, you would not know what love was.

Perhaps the reason you two loved one another was the fact that you both were kinky, conniving, and unapologetically truthful. For once. She loved you for who you were, not who you pretended to be. You loved her, because you knew, beyond anything else, you never had to worry about losing her because you fucked other women. She was bonded with you and loved you no matter what.

Most people can’t handle the truth. The truth was that you were fucking around, and she was too. The truth was, you loved one another, in that strange, twisted way, you knew her as if you knew yourself. And there was never once in your mind would you ever consider losing her. She was yours and you were hers. If she were gone, you would be lost.

She didn’t tell you that she saw her therapist after you two broke up. Her therapist told her the closest person she could compare her with, was Anais Nin. No other patients of hers were like her. None of her past and present patients, none of her colleagues’ patients either. No one but Anais Nin. And once that was out there, she was more settled. She was no longer alone, no matter how fucked up she was, she was not alone. She was simply herself and she loved men who were like her. Those men did not come by often. You were the only one. She had never loved another like you.

“Don’t ever leave me.” She demanded.

“I won’t.” You answered.

“We’d still be fucking. When you are a little old lady. I’d still be pissing in your mouth and fucking you.” You then added.

She knew that. She always knew that. Your face was aging. You had wrinkles now. One day you’d be frail, she’d be gray.

“Can we just be friends? With no fucking involved?” She’d ask earlier on
.
“No, I’d always want to fuck you.” You said it in matter-of-factly way. Her illusion of you two being platonic friends, doing whatever platonic friends did best, were thrown out of the window.

She couldn’t tell if you were angry with her about her fucking others. You seemed forgiving, and you even encouraged her. “I like you are a slut.” You fucked her and asked if she enjoyed having other dicks in her pussy. She said, “Yes” as she spread her legs for you.

“We are fucked up, aren’t we?” She’d comment. “We should see a therapist.” She suggested.

“Together?” You had asked. She was being noncommittal. She didn’t want anything to change. This level of intensity scared the shit out of her. She wanted to disappear after this. She wanted to say nothing, hear nothing from you, she wanted to reset. Pretend none of this ever happened. Pretend you did not exist.

How could you tell her such things? How could you tell her you loved her so and then disappeared? She asked you. “I don’t know. I don’t know.” You answered.

“It’s because you are scared. It’s too much.” She combed through your curly hair. She didn’t need to know. It was never as simple or as complicated as she made it out to be. It was just that. Love. Love in a color-blind way. Love in a fucked-up way. But it was love. What else would it be? She was going to be Anais Nin of her generation. You were going into her diary.

She would never be the perfect wife, devoted lover, or adoring wall flower. But you loved her as if you loved yourself. And for one reason or another, you knew you’d be tied to this mysterious, fucked up, emotionally screwed up and unavailable woman. She was going to be there, no matter what. She always loved you, and she always would. She knew. You knew.

From the moment you met her, fifteen years ago, a girl in a white dress came into your life. On your first date, she told you that she did not believe in wearing underwear, and she had a completely shaved pussy. She loved watching transvestite porn and bounced from one boy to another. She never really left you, and she never would.

It was the finale you had always hoped for. It was love.