Someday You Will Be Loved: A Before Mimi Story
Sometimes he is disgusted with himself. Sometimes horrified. Sometimes afraid, like he is going mad and there must be something revolting wrong with him. But on others there is the bitter regret and the horrible papery, weak feeling that comes with it. Like he knows that this will destroy him and eat up everything around him. He has tried so hard to hide it, to push it away, to conduct this relationship in a way that is proper. But now this confirms it. The way she reacted and looked at him like he was mad and then the curl of her lip which shriveled up in disgust. I am sick of this she said, Why do you want to do that? Really? It’s…it’s kind of weird. The words echo in his head, tiny splinters of doubt and shame.
At first, he acted like it was nothing, that he might even be able to forget these desires, but soon he could feel her sliding away from him, he felt like he couldn’t be honest with her. What kind of relationship was that? He found himself feeling small and distant and somehow less of a man for wanting this. Then, at last, Sven had drawn away from her and pulled on his clothes silently, his heart broken, exhausted from trying so much and he walked home smoldering, his collar pulled up and his hands jammed into his pockets. He pounded up the creaking wooden stairs, the smell of damp and stale cigarettes from his landlord hanging sticky in the air, oozing across the walls, making his throat tight. Reaching the final step, he pulled the keys from his pocket and rattled open the door, slamming it loudly behind him, his fingers shaking. Home. Slowly, he took a great sigh and then removed his jacket, feeling suddenly overwhelmed. Another relationship over. He pulled off his boots and threw them across the threadbare green carpet, too numb to be angry. His scarf landed over the arm of an armchair and he slumped onto the sofa. One arm thrown backward behind him, the other, across his waist. There was the reassuring click and shudder of the pipes and the distant hum of the traffic and that familiar ache in his chest as if nothing was different. He took a great sigh and now, he cannot stop himself, curling up on the sofa and wailing, his body shaking. He finds himself numb, there are no thoughts, just a great yawn of pain opening up under him, as if he is in some terrible freefall of grief.
After a while, he didn’t know how long, he wiped his face and rolled his shoulders, sitting up and pulling off his t shirt,heading into the bathroom. Sven yawned, exhausted and washes his face in an attempt to pull himself together, to make some of the shadows that have collected under his eyes disappear. He placed the towel by the basin and frowned at his reflection. He makes no sense. He’s not the weak, wormy caricature of submission that he is so used to seeing, that is so, horribly ubiquitous. Why aren’t there any regular guys? He’s the exact opposite. Isn’t he?
In truth, he doesn’t know any more. This is breaking him, pulling him apart. On the outside he looks tough, thanks to hours in the gym, his thick shoulders hiding the heart beneath. He is so afraid. Of his own desires, of how they don’t quite fit into the rest of his personality and most of all of not finding her. The mythical woman who will get this. Who will see the strength in his submission. Who will love him for it, but he is sure, on nights like this, that she may not even exist.
He walked into the bedroom and pulled off the rest of his clothes, sprawling naked beneath the cool sheets and sighing heavily, the tension pouring out of his body. He wrapped the sheets around him and slid his hand under the pillow, feeling the small piece of rope he keeps there meet his fingers in the dark, the ridges coiling around his palm comfortingly. Then, he imagines that she lies next to him and his heart breaks again. And, as with every night, she straddles him in the dark, a figment of his imagination, as he sinks into clammy sleep.