The boy who couldn’t keep it in his pants

Just to let you all know, if you said today that you would break up with me for abstaining, I would strut my stuff and leave you behind.

I should have walked away that first time I came to your house. There were no butterflies but I had never dated before and you seemed like a nice boy, so I stayed. I stayed and said, “Ok, we can try” and so began my first not-so-serious relationship.

We messaged and called each other often and I attended many functions with you – you were the star at all of them so I felt supportive. In two years, we went on a date twice but once I walked out on you at a restaurant because you did not speak to me and I did not understand why. That time doesn’t count.

We spent too much time at your very dirty house, where you lived with a number of friends and their girlfriends. Disgusting how we shared the beds, albeit in turns. I washed your dishes, cooked your food, organised your shoes and clothes, cleaned your floors and scrubbed your bathrooms while you joked about preparing me for marriage. We even chose our two children’s names but the butterflies just never flew in.

You watched my weight, said I had a nice body but not one meant for showing too much skin, and you got jealous every time I spent time with my male friends. That one time you got sick you said the doctor told you that I was the cause of your stress. Still we scratched each other’s itches and disturbed the neighbours on occasion.

I call you a boy because the relationship deteriorated to you breaking up with me once every few weeks and accusing me of cheating on you with one of your friends. In the latter case, you said you believed your friends when they claimed that any woman not having sex with her boyfriend is having it with someone else.

I knew we were headed nowhere so I decided that there would be no coming back the next time you said you no longer wanted to be with me. You made it easier when you insisted on sex. I gave in and just like that, I felt indifferent about you. So when you broke up with me that next time, I left for good. The butterflies were yet to fly in so it was easy.

We spent many months yelling at each other over the phone. There was no need for that, really, but I suppose there has to be some show of sadness when two people who love, or act like they love each other, part ways. Then came the years of silence which were followed by one or two of something like maturity by way of an attempt at a friendship.

We could be friends or lovers if we had deeper conversations or if I were still in love with you, like you said you were with me. Or if the butterflies finally flew in. But what kind of love would that be? We would both be deprived in a way or another so I don’t see the point. Sometimes moving forward is leaving everything behind.