Girl

I’m an ugly girl. A fat girl. I’ll never find true love, because all men want from me is a wet hole to stick their dicks in.

They think I’ll fuck anyone because I’m fat and should be grateful for the attention. They send these really shitty dick pics after we’ve texted like, twice, assuming I’ll swoon over it, like it’s some kind of big honor that he’s letting a stupid ugly fat girl look at an awkward selfie of his floppy, bendy half-limp cock.

The guy from OkCupid that I started talking to a few weeks ago and finally went out with last night hasn’t texted me good morning yet, and he usually does. What does that mean? It’s almost ten in the morning and still, not a peep.

Should I text him and ask him if I did something wrong? Doesn’t he know what he’s doing to me?

Sigh. I can’t even focus on my job because I didn’t eat anything for breakfast and my head is spinning. I just didn’t feel like eating. I wish I had a pastrami and cheddar croissant from Starbucks. I wish I was one of those women who get flowers at work. No one cares about me. I’ll die alone and unloved. I’m so tired of this shit.

We had sex last night. It was ok, he came really fast. I didn’t at all, but it’s hard for me to cum without a toy, and I didn’t want to look like a weirdo by pulling a big rubbery buzzy purple thingy out of my drawer to use on myself while he was fucking me. Guys don’t like that, I don’t think. I think they feel insulted by it, and I really liked him and didn’t want to fuck it up.

Why hasn’t he texted back yet?

Does my pussy stink? Was my fat so repugnant to him that he never wants to see me again now that he’s seen me naked?

Don’t argue with me, and don’t tell me that I’m beautiful. I know that’s a lie. Just hold me for awhile; that’s all I need. And maybe some cock. It’s all I’m good for, anyway.

Ok, I’m going to text him.

Hey. I had fun last night. Did you?

Ten mins later, he still hasn’t replied. Well, that’s it, I guess. Story of my life. Stupid, stupid fat girl, when will you learn to stop getting your hopes up?

Sigh.

Buzz.

My phone. Is that him? It is! He says, “I did. Just busy.”

That’s it? That’s all I get? Ugh. He’s going to blow me off, just like all the rest. Why is it so hard to find a guy? I see all these women my age with kids and a house and a husband who loves them and everything else, and I’m over here eating ice cream out of the container on my couch and watching “This Is Us” and crying my eyes out. I can’t adult. I’ve failed at being a grownup.

I need to start going to the gym. I need to lose weight. I hate myself, I’m so gross. Ugh.

I text him back.

“It’s ok. Just wondering if I did something wrong.”

Silence; waiting.

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6 comments

  1. It’s kind of a generic portrait of a lot of things I’ve had women tell me about how they feel about themselves. There’s a lot of women who feel as if these experiences are unique to them, and that something must be wrong with them because of it. I wanted to practice writing from the point of view of a woman, venture a little further outside of myself. So I’m glad to hear a woman say that it resonated with her. Thanks!

  2. […] If I want to write sci-fi, I’ll do it my own way. If I want to write horror, I’ll write it the way I want to write it. If I want to write fantasy, I’m not dipping my toes in the water and respecting the genre’s rules–I’m cannonballing into the pool and everyone better get the fuck out of the way, because I don’t even like fantasy as it’s popularly defined. I have my own own definition of it, and that’s what I’d write. You keep on biting Tolkien and leave me alone. I’ll be over here writing stories about space vampires and shopping mall time machines and children bullying robots and talking garden gnomes and sad old Hitler and Ba’al-worshipping homeowners associations and alien restaurants and monsters who live under toilets and meme people and whatever else pops into my head. […]

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