I Would Have Sex With All Of You

It’s fairly pathetic that almost all of the acceptance or ambivalence I have towards myself now stems directly from a pretty crass evening I had about six months ago.
Where this twenty-four year old man-child lay back naked on my bed, as I had been voicing my insecurities, then crossed his lean body to flick the ash of a cigarette out of my window. 
‘Look, I Don’t Fuck Ugly Chicks.’

It might be pathetic but it worked. I mean, whatever ‘working’ actually is. It’s working.
The fact that it came from somebody so crude and at times, completely brutish, just made it all that much more honest. If it had come from some sweet boy or girl with the best intentions and a gentle heart, fluttering hands etc etc, I wouldn’t have believed it. I mean, I didn’t, it’s happened before.
Last week this twenty-one year old stretched me out under candlelight and held my gaze to utter ‘you’re gorgeous’, and I balked. I mean I literally felt my stomach turn with the future nostalgia I might have held for this evening. 
And I had this girl, once, who thought curvy girls were attractive or whatever and all of that just makes me sick. Because I’m not a fetish. I’m just a person. With a face you might like. Or you probably don’t, but he does, she did, he did. Whatever.

Not that it matters. But it worked.