I’ve been looking for a savior in these dirty streets, looking for a savior beneath these dirty sheets…

I need something that is unattainable. I know it is unattainable, still I search.

I look everywhere and can’t seem to find it. I know what I need but I also understand that what I need can’t be found. I am not ashamed of my searching like most women usually are. I know I can blame the grief if I am ever questioned. I need something and I stupidly won’t stop until I find it. I look in every damaging nook and cranny, making the wrong decision at every turn. I am searching for the love I once had. The love I once had is gone and I am unable to accept that fact, so I search. The next best thing to acceptance is escape. So I escape.

Pleasure, distraction, mainly pleasure, mainly sexual. Boys are a spectacular distraction and easy to lure into my lair. The wrong boys are child’s play. Look around, easy boys are standing on every metaphoric street corner. This boy is short and I’m smitten. The next boy smells good and I am in love. The next boy is bad and my toes curl. Sex is my temporary fix. Dirty sheets are no longer just lyrics to a song. They become my existence. I do things I never imagined. Happy is not the word I would use. Satisfied might be.

Satisfied to not feel the pain even for as long as the ecstasy lasts. Pleased that any man would find me desirable enough to bed me. The wrong boys are easy and right now I am the wrong girl. I am a wounded girl that doesn’t understand her value. Avoiding my pain becomes effortless in the arms of the wrong boys. These dances become my distraction. Social media has become benign and pedestrian. The boy dance is more dangerous and fills the emptiness in a way Facebook or Instagram never will.  Fucking the wrong boys makes me forget and all I want to do for this brief moment in my life is forget. Certain boys fall in love and beg for more of me, feeling fortunate that they have finally found a “good” girl. Too good to be true. Some boys don’t believe me when I tell them my truth, convinced that I lied when I said Peter was my only until he died.

Peter is no longer my only.

I wonder as I wander away from one encounter to another “What is a slut and have I become one?” I decide if I am a slut, I will welcome the title. There are a million words for a women who enjoys sex; slut, whore, trollop, hussy, tramp. The only word that I can think of for the male version is gigolo and the word gigolo is surrounded by a romantic mystic. A slut is just a slut, no romance, no mystic. For now, I push aside confusion and continue to search. An itch that will never be scratched but still I search. Enjoying sex (and the boys that beg for it) is not what I am doing. I am lost, preoccupied with avoidance, unable to even enjoy boys while in their midst. I discover that women in my “hood” venture into one of two territories, born again virgin or slut. I am a card carrying slut, not proud of my quest but not ashamed either. I am just existing, confident in the knowledge that this too shall pass. It’s the right boy that I will never find. Being married is not in the cards for me, obviously. If I find the right boy, he won’t be right because I am still so wrong. Yet I search.