Photo: Millennium Images / Gallery Stock I wasn’t sure if I’d make it across the West Side Highway alive.
I had broken his heart the night before while sitting on our beige Pottery Barn couch in our beige one-bedroom rental, in a beige high-rise building in the Flatiron District. After five happy-ish years together and one large diamond ring , I told him it was over for no reason other than not loving him enough. That’s all I had, really. I didn’t love him enough or desire him enough or need him enough or want him enough to lock into a lifestyle together forever.
Every other night, I was either messing around with Thomas, a womanizing photographer with whiskey dick, or Trevor, a feral musician with a trust fund. There was Jax, just out of jail, who took me on an erotic date to a car wash in Queens. And Paul, from upstate, who liked to go downstate. I was twenty-five years old and it was safe and consensual sexual experimentation — which I found profoundly pleasurable. But I was engaged.
I assumed, however, that I could get through this “timelessly elegant” wedding with poise. It was miserable and alienating, but … that’s what passed champagne and deviled eggs were for, right? When I sat for the ceremony, the only people who wanted to sit next to me were relatives with names like Rhonda and Mordi — and even they weren’t so sure about me, energetically. “Kind of a whore” clanged in my head, but I tried to shake it off and hold my shoulders back like a lady.
ApronAnxiety Saw the headline of this article w/o reading the context and thought it was advice for elon musk
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