I spent the morning lying in bed and thinking about boys.
It's been six months since he broke up with me. Three months since I've come to view that as a good thing.
I don't miss him anymore; when he writes to me, it's a painful, drawn-out process. He always wants to know what I'm up to. What I'm doing. If I've found a replacement for him yet. I think it's the last that really concerns him. He may not want me anymore, but he doesn't like the thought of me being happy with anyone else. I... just want him to let go.
As I laid there, I wrapped my arms around a pillow. I laid there, wishing someone would wrap me in their arms.
It's been almost nine months since I shared a bed with anyone. I may not miss him, but I miss the feeling of being held in someone's arms as we both drift off to sleep. I miss the soft noises he makes, the constant struggles we have for the blanket-- the warmth of him against my back. I miss the comfort that comes with knowing he is there.
I laid there, wishing someone would touch me again.
Since he left me, I've been alone. He was my first and only kiss... first and only everything, to be painfully honest. I remember the feel of his hands on me, his lips pressed against mine. The thrill of knowing someone wanted me kept me coming back, even when the pull of his body palled.
He used me. But I used him just as much.
In the months that have passed, I've tried to move on... without much success. (Of course, this only helps confirm my belief that I have either the appearance or personality of one of the Great Old Ones. Meh.) I met another boy. Double meh.
My ex tells me that he wants to see me again and catch up on what we've missed.
He's offered to feed me steak for my birthday. Booze. And of course, sex.
The question stands: do I need human contact that badly?
I don't know.