I finally admitted to myself while in the shower tonight that I have not completely come to terms with the business of SMF.

What I keep going back to is that I tried very hard to accommodate where he said he was… not wanting a defined relationship or whatever.  I didn’t ask for anything.  So when he has the nerve to say “I can tell we just wouldn’t work out for each other” I want to say, how the hell do you know??  You didn’t do a thing, did you.  You didn’t go out of your way on my account, you didn’t compromise anything — if that’s what you’re looking for, someone who will be exactly what you think you want and allow you to remain completely unchanged, an island unto yourself, then you’re absolutely right, it would never have worked out.

What bothers me so much about SMF is that, for all that he can muster pretty sentences when he chooses to, I feel like the whole time he really didn’t give a damn.  I know he was preoccupied with other things, but sunovabitch, even friends give a damn about each other.  As a fuckbuddy, I allowed myself to be less than a friend, less valuable, less than a person, less than equal.  And for that the blame lies with me as much as with him — he enabled it, allowed it, kept fucking me.  And of course it was fun when it happened.  But that last time, when it was just fucking, barely a “hello” —

I know this is a valuable experience and that I can only grow from it.  But the fact is that I hurt.  I hurt because I feel devalued, I feel used (whether I was or not), I feel like I let myself be used and devalued, lied to myself to keep it going.  And I feel like he lied, too, whether he intended to or not.  I’m still not satisfied with his answer — “why would you go out on a date with someone if you’re not interested in dating” — his response was that they were kind of different.  But what if?

I don’t know.  I feel like a fool, I really do.  And what galls me is that he has this smug way of talking to me — e-mailing, texting, whatever — that implies that he knows me, he knows what’s going on with me, what I’m struggling with.  You don’t know me, man.  And you certainly don’t have the right to treat me like you do.  Fuck.  Anger and hurt!  And fat and disgusting and when was the last time I brushed my teeth? Exercised?  Shame.  A bit of self-loathing slipped in.

Don’t tell me “it didn’t work out” — there never was any “it” and if you really think there was you don’t know the first thing about me.  And that’s a goddamn fact.