Runaway Bride

The penny has finally dropped.  It’s taken a year of hard learning, but I’ve got there.

Things are usually so easy with The Bar Man; we both know how casual our relationship is and our evening started as it always has done.  As good friends do, we spent time catching up over a glass of wine and the intimacy was as replenishing as it always has been.  But in our typical progression to sleeping together something felt different.

I asked him to go slower, assuming I’d get in the mood soon

but shortly after, I jumped off the bed.  My head was shouting ‘STOP!’  I pelted out the room and down the stairs in only my pants, and burst into the T.V. room to my shocked housemates.  I had a minor freak-out to them, saying I couldn’t have sex with The Bar Man because he was a man and men are horrid and gross.  I decided I was no longer bi, I would have to be a fully-fledged lesbian because the thought of having sex with a man suddenly filled me with disgust.

I really wish it didn’t and I never imagined I’d be so uninterested in heterosexual sex to actually push a guy off me, but circumstance has made it so.  And all the compliments and words of affection The Bar Man gave me meant nothing;

a year of men’s empty promises will do that to you.

 ‘It’s so sad you feel that way’, said a friend.

So when a guy says I’m not like other girls, that I’m different, or special, I now smile sweetly but take none of it to heart.

Isn’t that sad?

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