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Adam. What a basket case. Adam�s complexes stemmed partially (maybe mostly) from his forays into his father�s porn collection from a young age. As far as men go, Adam demonstrates all the hideous aspects of manhood. I met Adam when I was twelve. New puberty. He was my boyfriend three times, but I had felt that he was a sort of boyfriend throughout the time I knew him. That is, without the constraints of a monogamous relationship. I was �just a friend,� which somehow translated to him as a person he could grope shamelessly. For the most part, I let him. Even when I was dating James. Even after I broke up with James because of Adam, and James threatened suicide. (Adam was the one to comfort me then.) Even after I discovered that Adam had done it not because he liked me, or even wanted me, but because he wanted to hurt James. He told me this himself. Winter was always when he fell back on me, and spring was always when he decided he didn�t need me anymore. He was forever �leaving his options open,� keeping me on hold in case someone �better� came along. I bore it because of my low self-esteem and because I thought someday my persistence would pay off. He never understood my insecurities. However, he had the insecurities that his father�s porn created in his psyche. He was convinced that I was having sex with every man EXCEPT HIM. I still don�t know exactly why he thought this about me, or even why the thought bothered him. It probably has to do with his preconceived notions of �average� penis size, that he doesn�t �measure up.� What is the measure of a man? It was when I left home two years ago that I decided that I didn�t need him anymore. I won�t speak to him. A mutual friend has told me that he wants to talk to me again, and that (to no one�s surprise) he has no idea why I left him. I loved him intensely, or maybe I was only in love with who I thought he was. My adolescence was heavy with his scent, his permeation filled me. The third time he dumped me was a nuclear holocaust. The radiation burned and kept me awake for four months. I can never go back. I am afraid of becoming again who I was at fifteen. I know some part of me cannot forget, cannot let go. |
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