I emailed Megan today: You know what sucks about friends with benefits? When he’s in the mood for friends, and your in the mood for benefits.
We didn’t kiss last night. We didn’t do much of anything. We hung out watching Kings of Queens and Jimi Hendrix’s appearances on the Dick Cavett Show and at Woodstock. He was tired, not in the mood. He tries to reassure in little ways that it’s not me. He said we could of met anywhere, and still have been able to connect and “just be us.” He came up behind me on the couch smoothed my hair back with the palm of his hand and said “You’re a pretty girl Susie.”
He’s called me sexy, but never pretty. I’d rather have pretty. I melted inside as he returned to the chair and we returned to our previous conversation as if he had said nothing, but it’s something I’ve been waiting to hear.
I don’t always feel pretty. I’m what they call voluptuous. Curvy. Okay, I’m downright fat. At least 80 pounds overweight. I’m not exaggerating. It’s what I am, and it’s difficult to write and difficult to admit. Even my therapist said it took me almost 8 months to bring it up. I try to manage, I go the gym a few times a week, try to eat healthy, if I only didn’t love bread and cheese so much. If only I had more willpower. I blame myself too much for things that are in my control, yet are so hard to control.
Which is where the power of He comes in. He likes my body. He likes that I am myself around him. He likes hanging out with me. He called me pretty. And this is why, even though I know it’s wrong, even though I am betraying myself, my eventual wants, he calls and I go like Pavlov’s dog because at this point, shamefully, I need the attention.