Mascara Lesbian: Toxic Relationship Relapse Sex

I'll start therapy tomorrow.

*Prefer to listen. I got you. Paid subscribers get access to high quality voiceover, narrated by me.

I arrived a little after midnight.

No one would think this was a good idea.

I didn’t think it was a good idea.

I knew this was a terrible idea. Self-destructive, emotional cutting, etc.

I’d tell you I didn’t care at the time, that I was too young and dumb to understand the consequences of something like this.

But I did care.

Tremendously.

We’d been broken up for six months, and I was finally emerging from the trenches of toxicity, and at this point the dark side had lost its glamour. The poetic delusions had shattered; I’d seen enough to know I didn’t belong there. I belonged in the light.

So why was I there?

Why was I standing on the front stoop of her apartment in a slinky red velvet dress and a new pair of those black lace stockings she loved to rip off my body?

Why was I wearing her favorite black lace bra and musky fragrance, teetering on the brink of toxic relationship relapse sex?

I wasn’t even in the city.

I wasn’t even in Brooklyn.

Jersey would’ve been better.

I was five hours away from my home on the Upper East Side.

In Boston.

I’d always dreamed of having my own apartment in Manhattan.

And after a decade of hard work, I finally had one.

I’d always dreamed of working a full-time job as a staff writer in Manhattan.

And against all the odds, I finally had one.

I’d always dreamed of having a big, extraordinary, creative life in Manhattan.

And holyshit, I finally had one.

I was thriving in New York.

When I wasn’t flailing in Boston with her.

The whole thing had been self-destructive from its inception—why had I ever swiped right on someone who lived in Boston when I lived in New York? I’ve never liked Boston. Too stale and too academic for my taste.

Her neighborhood was especially stale. She lived on a drab, grey street with drab, grey stucco apartments, no art, no graffiti, no accents, no soul.

I shivered and stared at the leftover yellow snow littered on the stoop. For a moment, I contemplated leaving. It was too late for the bus, but I could get an Uber to the station and Amtrak back to the city, couldn’t I? It would be wildly expensive. But worth it, I’d be “choosing myself.”

Peering into her first-floor window felt like looking down the barrel of a gun.

Would I pull the trigger?

Which choice was the trigger?

Trudging back home at midnight?

Or staying in Boston with her?

As soon as my cold, red knuckles knocked against her front door, I had my answer.

But once you pull the trigger of the gun, what’s done is done. You can’t unpull a trigger.

I heard her feet thump heavy toward the door.

I felt a strange, erotic angst tingle between my thighs.