So we spoke for two months, we had tango classes together, several group ones, as well as private lessons. You were my teacher. I wrote for you articles for your blog and we went out on a couple of occasions. One to a nearby small pub, listening to some rock music while playing childishly on the sofa, another one to a bar drinking exotic freshly squeezed, well-presented juices, nearby the ball school. We spoke endlessly, texted daily, hourly to be more precise. We shared our fears, our weaknesses, we kissed in your car, on a plateau overlooking your town, in the middle of a starry night, like teenagers. You thought I was twenty one. You are forty eight. We agreed on keeping our relationship at that level, nothing more. We made plans for further work we could share.
One evening, after a private lesson, you invited me to your home. You knew it in advance. I didn’t. I had opened up with you previously and I had shared intimate details about my physical difficulties in having sex and all the preparations required. i spoke with you because you seemed a sensitive soul. I did it because I would not have expected to have sex with you. You are short, and a lot older than me.
I tend to share stories with people on trains, but I am not the only one, knowing I will not meet them again. I think we all do it more or less, because we feel there are no consequences in opening up to a strangers, which is probably wrong, but life is full of mistakes. That is why I didn’t bring any form of lubricant with me, I didn’t expect we would have been that intimate.
It was never in our plans as we discussed many times. Yet, you knew differently.
After sharing an unremarkable moment, one can easily forget, you took me back to my car and I drove home. Nothing major happened, at least from my perspective, a few attempts, some rubbing. Eventually you took things in your hands, and helped yourself, on my side. Maybe I’m just trying to minimize or to deny it. Either way, it was enough.
The day after I began to feel pain in my urethra. The area was intense red and painful.
I share it with you. You minimize. You tell me of your candida issues you experienced with your ex-es. Couldn’t you share that before? Couldn’t you use a protection then? Selfish bastard. You blame me, and I never had anything in my life. You keep saying you are fixed in two days with an antibiotic, cortisone based cream which you use for an equal amount of time. With another fungicidal cream, used topically for two days, you cure your symptoms, but not the root cause, which remains latent.
You get angry with me for being fearful about my health. You take no blame and instead say my intestine must be full of the candida fungus. However, you did not enter in contact with my intestine, although you wanted. I said no. Two times. Even if you ignored me, I was still closed and nothing happened. So, no, you cannot blame my intestine as you probably do with the others, when you do not encounter any physical resistance.
“I don’t want my day to be spoiled” it’s the message I received a couple of days after that night, because someone showed an interest in taking over the shop you are leaving. I have not heard from you since.
Ten days passed and I am left dealing with the issue, the pain and the worries of having received a disease I never had, for the first time in my life. Thanks to you.
I decide to write to you, because I want to know how you could feel OK, after all we shared to treat me like that. How could you have simply disappeared. How could you not feel you owned me at least some help and an apology. So I write to you, but you cut short, annoyed, and the way you find to feel better about yourself, is by offending me, and calling be “unstable”, as you did with all the ex-es you told me about.
A man like you, probably feels proud.