How many. How often. Who it was. That is not public property. Curiosity dressed as concern still wants a full guided tour of my sheets.
Tag: honesty
Numbers I can do. People I romanticise. That is why the spreadsheet looks adult and my Friday looks like a dare I already accepted tonight.
A man lists bodies and he is experienced. I do the same and I need saving. That double standard is older than my bloody rent.
The performance drops in the back seat. I replay the look I should have left on. Call it a good night. Mean it halfway, barely.
No speech. Just the look and an extra mug on the side. Flatmates see the mascara and the hour. Lying is pretty pointless in here.
Do not just grunt and hope for the best. Tell me it is good. Tell me where. Quiet men make me bored and over perform.
People love a girl who is easy to plan around. I have taste. I have a body. Wanting both respected is not me being difficult.
Anyone will touch me in the dark. Fewer will hold my hand by the bus stop. That gap tells me more than those late texts.
Not showy messages. The are-you-home-safe ones after. Aftercare is a character test. Most good people pass the sex easily and then fail the morning kettle.
It was good. Too good, maybe. Next day he talks about timing and work stress. I know a retreat when I am watching one clearly.