Letters To My Lovers

M.S.

We were sitting in my Nana’s living room three and a half years ago, when I finally told you.

“You should’ve said! I would have made an effort!”

“You mean more of an effort, than a couple of Magners and a two minute shag in the woods?” I cackled, halfway through my second bottle of the cheapest rosé we could find, from the Scotmid on the high street.

I explained that it hadn’t hurt, on account of me taking my own virginity with a mini-shampoo bottle in a Benidorm hotel, a couple of years previous to our initial rendezvous on the 6th August, 2009. The day I properly lost my virginity, via penile penetration. Your penile penetration. Also, the day I got my Higher exam results. I done pretty well, by the way. Thanks for never asking.

To say it was a non-event would be extremely kind. We’ve had sex twice since then and truthfully, I only endured it for the company. Although we’ve laughed our way into the wee hours of the morning together, you and I both know if it wasn’t for the sex, you’d never have come round. Once, when you were wriggling around on top of me and I had to remind myself to actively participate, I noticed how doughy you felt. Not as firm as Jus-Rol, but not as soft as muffin mix. Somewhere in the middle. Somewhere I didn’t want to be. Every single time I’ve hugged someone for the first time since then, I’ve always asked,

“Do I…Do I feel doughy?”

They’ve always reassured me I don’t, and looked at me strangely. Kinda the same way my dog looks when he farts and gives himself a fright, confused and apprehensive. Now, I feel terrible for speaking badly of you. Really I do. Especially when you’ve always been so kind to me. Oh so kind, by only ever wanting to hang out just after you’ve had a break up. And never asking me out on an actual date, because I’m ‘far too pretty and cool’ for you. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your honesty over the years

In all seriousness, the bitterness I’ve injected into this letter has been heavily dramatised. You see, I bought a few bottles of that rosé earlier today and I’ve been feeling a little low since my last letter.

In short, I still like you. My virginity was taken kindly, and quietly, and without any fuss, just the way I wanted it to be. You were perfect for the job. I’m happy to see you’ve toned up a lot since that night in your garage, November 2011. And I’m happy to see you — a generally nice guy —in love with a generally nice girl, in a better flat than mine.

Yours,

Not Bitter