Dear Ernest Hemingway

Dear Ernest Hemingway,

I’ll probably never see or talk to you again and I don’t want to ever see or talk to you again. Do I regret the choices I made with you?

We met on Tinder and I don’t even remember swiping right, but I do remember swiping right to a lot of guys at the time, looking desperately for someone who would talk to me. You did and we went out on a date that I was overly nervous for per usual. You thought it went well so I went along for a second date. I told you I was a virgin and you were okay with that. “Okay with that,” like it was some sort of hardship we had to overcome together.  I was the “virgin” what does that make you? Why did you tell me that “most guys” would have left when I told you what I was? What do they call the person who takes your virginity? Why do I get a name and you don’t?

When you didn’t leave I got this false hope that you didn’t just want me for sex. I let you take my hardship.

It triggered something in me, something self-destructive filled with OCD tendencies. I’m still dealing with it. Your words seared into my head. You came over late and I really thought you liked me, I really thought it. You wanted sex and when I said no, you took my no as an opportunity to try and convince me. “I walked all the way over here.” “C’mon I know you want it.” “Seriously you’re gonna make me leave.” “We had bad sex we should try again.” “I stayed with you even though you were a virgin.” You know what? Fuck you! I kicked you out and we never spoke again.

I wonder what you tell people, or if you tell people at all about how it ended with me. I don’t tell people. I don’t want to tell people. It’s over now. But I still have these fucking obsessive compulsions to remind me of you.

                                                                                                                          Yours truly,

                                                                                                                      The Virgin

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