The January when Chrissy got Screwed (again) and Travelled to Seoul

If there is a God, I dare say I must be their least favorite. Three months after my last post—when Prof left me running here to rant—I find myself back again, nursing yet another disappointing ordeal.

"You’ve known me for over a decade," I told Pw. "You’ve seen all my romantic failures, and you can’t say it’s just the type of men I go for anymore."

"Babe," Pw replied, "I’ve always thought you were one of the nicest people I know, and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with you. But honestly, I think you just have no luck in love and romance."

Unlike my story with Prof—which I’ll never share because it was so special and dear to me that writing about it would only taint its memory—I’m going to write about Expat D.

A 49-year-old man who either doesn’t know what he wants or knows exactly what he wants—and it’s not me.

Can someone hand me a manual for dating? Because how else do you explain this? All I remember is him wanting to see me three times a week, making time for us whenever possible. All I remember is thinking he was really into me.

The operative words here: I thought.

If observing someone’s actions to assess their intentions is such an unreliable method, then hit-and-run accidents might as well be reinterpreted as the victim throwing themselves in front of the bus—or under it.

Because who could have guessed he was still playing the field? God himself couldn’t claim to have 48 hours in a day, yet somehow this man managed to get emotionally interested in someone else--the whole time he was seeing me thrice a week! Was sex with me that good like a heroin addict resorting to begging and licking trash for a fix? It must have been.

No one would have guessed that I was merely an option—that there was no real emotional connection, even while he held my hand and showered me with copious amounts of PDA. Now, I just feel dirty.. 

So, instead of nursing the void Prof left behind, I now have a new one to deal with. This one, though, I know I’ll heal from in no time. But after an expensive Valentine’s Day gift I gave him in advance—a $300 gesture—and paying for the morning-after pill after he irresponsibly finished inside me, I finally know what I meant to him: nothing more than a cum dump.

He didn’t even feel bad or offer to cover the cost of the pill.

So God, if I'm your least favourite, can you tell me why?

***

Seoul, again. In less than four months, I'm back in this city where butterflies once fluttered wildly in my stomach—and even, I believe, on top of my head. I can’t help but be reminded of Prof, over and over again.

Prof, who never failed to share stories with me, like how he wouldn’t show me a picture of his 15-year-old crush because he thought I might get jealous. Prof, who kept checking on me after my surgery, who noticed the tiniest details in the photos I sent—like the McDonald's my brother was eating and my pink toenails which he adored.

I swear, if Prof was available and a realistic option, we’d be writing the most beautiful love story right now. The kind where we sit together in our favorite spot, devouring book after book, while stealing moments to make love in between.

So, God, did you remove Expat D from my life because Prof is coming back to finally be my love story?

We both know that’s not possible. But then again, you’re God.