Say that you love me

Do i smell something cat-fishy?

a story about love, identity and abs

PROLOG – Writer notes

I’ll start everything off by saying I’m a nice bitch. 

I can be shady, gossipy and quite hurtful when I feel wronged, but to the core I’m nice. I always search for explanations behind the behaviours of those around me, I search for that glimmer of light when all seems lost and always try to know all the angles and sides of a story before I can judge. #ImAFuckingLibra 

So there are only a few people whose decisions or acts I can’t explain or fully grasp. This is a story about one of them. 

This shit is about to get real personal in this instant. 

ACT I – A Virtual Beginning

So last year, I met this guy on Tinder. It was one of these moments where I swiped right knowing the guy was way out of my league. We’re talking big muscles, tattoos, sporty kind of gangsta attitude. And I was like « don’t cut yourself short, you deserve the world, be confident in your beauty and charms they must be there somewhere under the self loathing » so I swiped. AND WE MATCHED LADIES AND GENTLEMEN.

I was gagged and feeling like I was the hottest babe ever. His name was Ethan, a few years older than me, he was a tattoo artist from Chicago, ex-gang member coming to Paris to live a righteous life and open a his shop. Sexy and dangerous, everything I needed to get out of my comfort zone. 

He loved the fact that I wore heels and was very supportive of the things I did, and caring for when I was ill, or hurt. So we texted, and when I say that I mean we TEXTED, all day long from 7am to 1am, there wasn’t a single half hour without a text, a picture, a word, a comment on my pics, something.

Logically, his French was sometimes sketchy, less logically, his English too.

Came the time to meet. When I’m interested in a guy, I’m always up to meet as quickly as possible, to see if it matches irl too and because chatting will only go so far. 

That’s when the shit hit the fan. 

ACT II – The Thirst

Every time we agreed to meet, the guy had an weird story that came up and he couldn’t. But at the same time I was like « he has an Instagram, in which he posts stories – you can’t cheat with stories right? – and he’s really caring and upfront about things. I wanna trust him ». What wouldn’t I do for sweet abs and tats… 

All my friends were of course telling me that he was sketchy, that it was bullshit, that I should stop talking to the guy, and all. My answer was « I know I’m gonna burn my wings, but if I don’t do it, I’ll never learn ». 

Bitch, did I burn them. 

It lasted for 5 months I think. Maybe because I have a complicated history with men, being flamboyant, being kind of fem and having a hard time trusting people. But I had the attention I wanted: someone was caring for me. He got so much under my skin that at some point I even wondered if maybe that could be enough, a virtual lover was better than none, right?

ACT III – The Wake-Up Call

That’s when I understood I needed to end this. I put together my own intervention, and slid his picture in the reversed Google image search. There, I didn’t even take me two minutes to find out that the guy was snatching pictures and stories from an Irish model wannabe. 

I was gagged. I expected it, of course I expected it. But still, this was yet another cross on a never-asked-for love-life-failure checklist.

ACT IV – The Aftermath

I will never know who I talked to, who was behind the screen, who I chatted and sexted with. 

At some point I was even scared that what I sent would be used against me. But you know what? Fuck it! Paris Hilton and Kim K did base their fortunes on sex scandals! 

I’m afraid there is no moral to this story, only the weird feeling of knowing someone that doesn’t exist and building memories and feeling around them. 

Still, life goes on and regrets won’t help you move on, so I look forward see what’s in store for me. 

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