Anyway, he and I had fun. When it was new we were a whirlwind of massages, lovemaking, fun outings, long walks, and nights of cuddling and all of it quickly became our routine. Then, when Ramadan rolled around, I asked that he respect my period of celibacy and sobriety. He did. In fact, I was amazed at the ease with which he did. Raised an eyebrow at it, to be honest. But that’s only because I hadn’t yet figured out that, while my high end cuisine (read as: my ass that he gleefully ate) was off of the menu for awhile, he had a backup plan. His trusty, microwaveable meal. He slept with her while I was on a solo beach trip in the last ten days and she made sure to tell me as much.
She was probably on top of the world about it, too. Tasted victory until she realized that not only had I not gone away after receiving her news, I’d moved in with him. Then we continued our routine until we had a little too much fun and the consequences put a major speed bump in our physical relationship. That was cool. I felt like it was recompense for haraam living, and he took his shahada afterward, so we focused on keeping it halal after that.
I’ll pause here to say that a portion of the details of my first run-in with her (via IG, her favorite medium) are more complicated, but I did consider what she said and filed it away in my ‘likely true but I also don’t care’ file back then. If anything, I was an even mix of angry and amused at the position she’d put herself in. Meaning, now there was little she could say or do to surprise me. How could a mere sun win against a quasar?
She is me. I’m the quasar. Call me Lil Qua-Qua if you like, bitch.
“Shining so brightly that they eclipse the ancient galaxies that contain them, quasars are distant objects powered by black holes a billion times as massive as our sun.”
Last week, I again shared her screenshots in my group chat and laughed at them with my older and younger friends. There was a lot they wanted to do to her, but I backed them off because all of it would’ve been too much effort on their part. Not worth it, in short. When we were bored of ridiculing her, we came to the consensus that she was likely so persistent because she wanted something from him that I was easily able to extract but she never could.
Inwardly, I also surmised that what she assumed he got in return from me was money, despite that him letting me move in with him as I waited to close on the house saved me thousands. Orgasms and free rent? Yum.
I almost wish that I could’ve spoken to her and explained to her that she had us all wrong—had me all wrong: “He and I were just hanging—there’s no need for you to debase yourself by being his slide. Do better. Want more…”
But I never got the chance. Well, until now.
So, as a result of our limited interactions and my calm responses, she now believes that letting herself be treated like a stepping stone while watching another woman be treated like numero uno without even having to try is a win for her.
“Okay love, you’ve won. Your trophy seems strange to me, but you earned it from having to endure that picture of me on his wall while you were on your back. (Knees? He says knees but I feel like there was more.) Did you put the one of us on his dresser in the drawer? Or did he? I know he can be kind in that way.”
But again, we never formally connected, so I never got to field those questions.
As I reviewed the messages she proudly sent me last week, complete with receipts that proved that she Ubered herself to his home to have sex—without any of the outings, hand-holding, and public affection that I received from him—I felt a surge of pity for her. I did. I get it; Valentine’s Day is around the corner and it puts some of us deep in the feels. And perhaps she has a lot of options, but none to hyper-focus on. Or maybe she only wants to focus on the one that got away. Some women are just like that, I guess. At any rate, I alternated between her “proof,” which was just a few screenshots, and began to look at my “proof.”
We have hundreds of pictures of us, some with his mother and some with mine. Footage from music festivals, quiet nights in, and candid ones he snuck of me while I was sleeping or painting. I looked at all of them and then put myself in her shoes. The last time she saw him was the same day he took me to a concert. He posted photos of us swaying in the crowd and making silly faces that same night. Where was her acknowledgement?
I imagine it annoyed her. Her knees probably hadn’t begun to heal from the last BJ and there I was, unbothered and having fun while she stalked our pics like the weirdo she’s apparently always been.
She could bear being cheated on. What she could not bear is me.
So if you’re reading this (or having your YouTuber friend read it and report it back to you), the rest is yours, my love.
I’m wrote this to give you something that you obviously need from me. I see you. I’m aware that you exist. I’d stroke your hair and tell it’s alright if I could. Only, I can’t imagine your hair. Or face. I’ve only pictured your mouth, and admire that you’re making use of it one late night visit at a time. Really took the pressure off of me while I was recovering from a horrific medical incident. So thanks. But…you’ll forgive me if I know little else about you.
Because see, you weren’t his screensaver when I met him. Your pictures weren’t on his wall. His roommates spoke of you in vague terms. One hadn’t heard of you at all. Ever. It was strange. Perhaps they kept his secret because they knew you were still useful to him.
But you seem to value whatever space that you held in his life—despite it being the width of a millimeter. So because my pity is relentless, I’ll release him to your care when I’m finished with him.
But hey, that’ll probably be soon. I tire of things easily because I’m ‘an old bitch’ right? Right.