Sharp Optimists

I’ve just turned 27. Well, two months ago. Yay! *insert eye roll here* I need to stop being optimistic regarding other human beings. I’m too old for this. First and foremost, I just had a conversation with an ex of mine. Someone I might have carried a flame for, but I think that bitch is dead now.

It started with the question “how are you doing?” that banality we all resort to at the beginning of every conversation to simultaneously look concerned, and to give the clear picture that we are not paying too much attention to them yet. He responded by telling me that he’s had sex with four different guys this month.

Now, I’m excited for him. I mean, he’s no longer in a relationship with his significant other. Or, even better, they have finally decided to try an open relationship! Either way, this is good news for me. He further elaborates on his penis plunging as being nothing more but the generic penis plunging called cheating.

I’m ashamed to say that I was frankly disgusted with him, and the flame that had been sputtering its way into the Guinness book of world records just went out. I had placed him on a pedestal due to my own relationship experience with him. I had viewed him as a faithful, consistent partner/lover/friend who would be there whatever the circumstances. There might have also been the fact that I believed I could not match these standards, which led to me being an absolute cunt during our relationship.

This might, of course, have led to us breaking up. Add in the fact that I didn’t trust his good intentions, I wanted to carry on being a ho so bad, and that he and I both sucked at communication, might explain why we broke up. I mean, we sucked at communication. As an expert dicksucker, I know how bad our communication sucked. I expected him to understand my desires, he expected me to read signals written in lemon juice regarding our relationship. You know how you are supposed to then hold the material above a flaming candle and have the words magically appear? I wasn’t doing that shit with this relationship. It was already a room filled with kindling and petrol, just waiting for an idiot to breathe hot air upon it to ensure its incineration.

He finally dumped me via text, leading to my current fear of texts from significant others. Yeah, like a boss. Over SMS. Anyway, I digress. I believed for some reason that he was a paragon of homosexual excellence. One with a Napoleonic need to conquer mountains, yes, but a paragon nonetheless. (Yes, I just made a joke regarding his diminutive nature) I believed he was the end-all of what a guy can be. I actually believed, naïve and optimist that I am, if anything ever happened in his relationship, he might be willing to maybe give us a second chance.

And then, and then, after I ask the inevitable question from a heartbroken optimist “why are you cheating?” he told me, with no laughing emoji, that he was “exploring”. In my mind I’m like THE FUCK. Now, I am an easy bottom to please when it comes to excuses. Make it inventive. Make it funny. Make it something I will think solemnly about. You tell me “exploring” and I immediately wish your bf finds out that you are unable to keep your dick to yourself.

Why am I so hung up on the excuse? I mean, it’s his own. He’s to use whatever excuse to justify whatever behaviour he brings out. I argue yes, that is true. But we always appreciate effort. I was holding him up to a standard that did not exist, a standard his lazy ass was unable to uphold. I realise that he did not ask me to put his Napoleonic behind on a pedestal, but subconsciously, he did. I responded in like, and felt unlovable, unworthy, and hence proceeded to be on my worst behaviour during the time we were dating, because I knew my best was not enough. I felt that it could not be enough.

I’m beginning to realise I was more than worthy. I was the fucking pinnacle. I will admit, the sex during the entire relationship was not my best performance ever. Call it stage fright, call it being a young, inexperienced bottom that was sloppy as fuck (the worst kind of sloppy. You know what I’m talking about). But I didn’t realise any of this until I stopped considering Napoleon to be some paragon.

I no longer do. I love this revelation because it shows me, I still have a fuckton of self-loving to do, to ensure I never view myself as second again. The beauty of this entire thing is that regardless of how much I feel this optimistic bitch in me has to die, I realise this optimistic bitch fights so hard. I also stop myself and think “why the fuck do you still believe?”. She flips her Brazilian and tells me she fights because life is a dark meaningless void and all we do, the longer we live, is approach the nothingness. I know this bitch fights for hope the way I fight for things I believe in. I also realise that without this bitch I am a 27-year-old gay man about to give up on humanity because of all the love he’s given into the universe, and the very little he feels back. Without that optimistic bitch, I am quite possibly a mass murder/suicide waiting to happen.

I just needed a Khoi Bushman to show me that my first and greatest love has always been me. It scares me that regardless of the weird shit that I have seen or been a party to for the past 27 years, the almost rape, the general confusion caused by other people failing to heed my importance, the fact that I am my first love has only been shown to me, again, by this optimistic bitch. I’ve finally torn down the Napoleon in my head, and realise that I am more than he deserved. Fuck, I’m more than I deserve.

The optimist has not escaped unscathed, sadly. She’s become slightly less trusting. She’s sure all people are trash, and no one will change that opinion. But she’s also sure she’s wrong. She’s become spinier, absorbed more hard edges than any optimist should ever have to. She’s still the dumbest, singularly bravest part of my being, but I think she’ll be fine.

The optimistic bitch has claws now.