Do you know what it’s like to be in love with a manwhore? I think I do. I wish I didn’t but I do. Though, I do not like the word manwhore. It sounds a bit too critical. He wasn’t really a man; he was a boy. He wasn’t really a whore; maybe he was kind of a slut. But I don’t mean it in a judgmental way, or in a way that implies I’m somehow better than him. I’m definitely not better than him because today I still look at his photos with other women, roll my eyes and murmur what a slut even though I know, he knows, I still want him. I want him to be my slut and I will be his too.
Being in love with a manwhore is fun but tricky. Fun because he is attractive and ridiculously good in bed. You don’t know how he even does it but it’s like he understands the female body better than you do and he can tell exactly what you want, how you want it, when you want it before you even find a chance to mutter it to him. Honey, being with him, there is really no time for words. Your mouth will be busy moaning to the motion of his body pressing against yours, to the way he undresses you with his hungry eyes, to how he runs his wet lips aggressively along your neck, on your left ear, slowly down your spine then unexpectedly between your legs.
Though it’s tricky because it’s not like you can say no to him. Even when your mind tries to fight it, your body will not listen. All your inner buttons will be immediately turned on and you will fall under the spell of his slutty manhood. Once you’re hooked and he knows you’re hooked, it’s right about time he plays his little fuckboy game. He will immediately back off and become ambivalent about his level of interest. He will still be responsive but never too invested. He will still be reachable but never really around. Ironically, it draws you in even more, making you painfully addicted like it’s only him who can make you feel as good again.
Of course he’s quick to notice that, and soon he starts to mention his manwhoring sport as though it’s always been part of the deal, something you should already know and accept. He will casually say it after sex, in your bed, before he reaches for a cigarette and you still curl up next to him studying his expressions. You will feel a sharp pain in your chest but you will play along with him anyway because you are afraid of losing him. You want him to think you’re cool, you can deal with this. You will keep letting him get inside you, and that’s how you will eventually be left wanting more, wanting something you cannot have while having no clue when you will ever see him next.
When his phone is off and all your text messages go unanswered. When you don’t get any sign of life from him until 4 pm the next day and he nonchalantly shoots you a lame excuse along the line of, “my phone is out of battery”, or “sorry I fell asleep.” Or sometimes there isn’t any text at all and you have to check Whatsapp for that little status line indicating when he was last seen. You can only bet that he is being his usual slut self going around slutting with other women. But that’s only a guess. You never really know what he’s up to, who or how many he is with, because a manwhore never gives you the details of his whoring schedule. And it drives you crazy because you pathetically want to be included in it even if it means sharing him with other women.
The shittiest part is that, you have no right to get upset or question him, and as soon as you hear from him again, none of that even matters. Not your pride, not your tears; not those sleepless nights you were holding onto the promises he had eagerly made but never bothered to keep; not advice from friends, family, including your own mother. Not even ones that really felt like a wake-up call, a hit in the head, like they could actually save you. No. Nothing’s changed. He, same, you, same. Even if you try to ignore him to feel in control, that’s already too old in the book and never lasts more than a day or two anyway.
You can’t deny that you miss him. You will give in to him. You will wag your little tail and welcome him inside your world, your body all over again. You will convince yourself that you’re okay with this, that just like him, you’re not looking for anything more and you’re finally feeling liberated. Only after he’s gone again, when your heart feels like breaking at the first note of every love song and you collapse on your knees shaking will you realize that it’s all utter bullshit. You’re not okay and never okay. You’re not even remotely liberated. You’re trapped by the touch of a man who doesn’t want you and you’re sick of pretending you don’t mind. You do mind and it does hurt. You’re in love with a manwhore and you have no way to win.
Being in love with a manwhore is a choice you don’t know you have made and a game you don’t know you are playing. You can be condescending and cynical all you want to him, or you can call him a manwhore, a dumb slut, a douchbag if it makes you feel any better. Maybe you can even ring him up and tell him you’ve found someone else and yes, for a moment he will be surprised and maybe he does care about you after all. But it’s not like it ever changes anything. Because at the end of the day, you know, he knows, he still gets to have you and leave you as he pleases and you are still the loser who’s in love with a manwhore.