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I came like I've never come before.
It turns out I'm not frigid. Well, not physically anyway. My ex might be right. After all, I did end things because it made sense. I was ruthless about it.
He was studying abroad; I didn't want to do long-distance—the end.
But maybe it was more than the practicalities.
Maybe that was an excuse.
Am I about to compare myself to a fictional serial killer? I am. OnDexter, the TV show, the main character can't stay in relationships for long, or have sex with his girlfriends, because they start to see he's missing something. (Don't worry. I only watched the pilot because he insisted. I didn't hate it as much as I expected. It's pretty funny, actually).
It was like that. I knew he'd see I was missing something. Not a secret hobby as a vigilante murderer. But some ability to connect that other, normal people have.
Maybe I wasn't fair to him. Maybe he would have tried and understood. It doesn't matter. I didn't want to try.
This is a long way of saying—
I'm in the same place.
I still don't want love.
But I do want sex. And not the way I wanted it with him. Or even in high school, with the perfect mix of hormones and self-destructive tendencies and a belief sex made me cool and interesting racing through my veins.
There's nothing self-destructive about this impulse.
(Is there? Is the impulse evolving like a virus outsmarting me?)
I want to want because I feel awake and alive.
And I want to see this guy again.
Because I like the way his hands feel on my skin. And I like the way his groans sound in my ears.
And I even like the smell of him in my bed.
But is that really just sex?
Or is it more?
I am a woman of science. I can experiment. And most scientists, the pioneers anyway, use themselves as subjects at some point.
But what's the hypothesis?
What outcome do I really want?
To fall in love?
Or avoid it at all costs?
Maybe that's the experiment.
Maybe I can see if I'm as heartless as my ex suggested.
ChapterSeven
PATRICK
She's hilarious.
