I was once in love with someone. Real love. The kind where you give 100/100 and don’t even keep sense for backup.
Sometimes I wonder what the odds are of me loving genuinely, because when I do, it rarely ends well.
Anyway, let’s get back to the story.
Let’s call him Lewis. Not his real name, but if he ever reads this, he’ll know it’s him.
At first, everything was good. We were deeply in love, or at least, I thought we were. This guy gave me my first real orgasm through head. I was shaking, and he didn’t stop. He pushed me past my limits and made me cream on his dick. At that point, I was convinced he was one of the best things that ever happened to me.
He paid attention to my body, especially my clit. He treated it like it mattered. Like it was important. The kind of attention that makes you feel seen, wanted, almost valued. He knew when to slow down, when to go hard, when to pause and kneel just to taste what he had drawn out of me.
And my nipples? Oh God! He could make me forget where I was with just his lips, teeth, and tongue.
(I hate that my body still remembers this.)
But like they say, all good things end. And when this one did, it didn’t end gently.
I saw the red flags early enough. I just ignored them. And this may have been because the sex was good, maybe because I wanted it to work. Or maybe because I loved the feeling of being desired.
The man who once made time suddenly didn’t have any. Suddenly, he was a “hustler.” Suddenly, there were quotes and excuses:
“If you’re dating a hustler, don’t expect time or attention…”
The thing is, I once dated a forex and crypto guy. The kind that never sleeps. Yet, he created time. Sundays were for lunch dates. Midweek was for hangouts, which included drinks, suya, quiet sit-outs where we just existed together. He even followed me to the salon every Friday.
So, if that kind of man could be present, na you wey just dey press phone and gadget go dey misyarn?
Still, I stayed.
You know when a man is tired of you, you know after sex, as he turns his back and scrolls his phone. Meanwhile, you see once in two weeks, and you don’t even sleep over most times. I wasn’t asking for much. Just time.
One day, I got tired. We fought. I washed up, dressed, and was about to leave when he called me back and insisted we talk.
As we talked, he dodged accountability. I didn’t give him space. Then suddenly, he said: “Pull your pants off. Be naked before I come back.”
And I obeyed.
When he returned, there was no tenderness. No affection. He went straight in. My body responded before my mind could catch up. My clit throbbed. I got wetter than usual. That night, he fucked me empty. I rode him. I climaxed so hard my thoughts scattered.
He gave me the best head that day- rough, controlled, punishing. He knew exactly when to pause, when to push, when to take control. It felt intoxicating. Almost like an apology without words.
But deep down, I knew nothing had changed.
Sex didn’t fix the fact that he ignored my messages. Sex didn’t give him emotional presence. Sex only delayed the inevitable.
Three weeks later, we broke up.
Surprisingly, it didn’t hurt the way I expected. Then it dawned on me that I wasn’t in love with him. I was in love with the idea of him. With the fantasy. With how he made me feel in bed.
That’s why some girls say no to marriage proposals, as they love the idea, not the reality. Except they have no choice.
Months later, we met again. I thought maybe I could use him for sex one last time. I tried.
My body didn’t respond.
What once felt electric now felt empty. I endured it. No satisfaction. Just irritation. That was when I finally let him go… for real.
One day, someone will beat his standard.
Until then, my customised Rose vibrator understands me better.
