I’ve had my fair share of sundaes. Often, in a greedy, childish way, just because I could. I’ve left the odd lover with ice cream dripping down their fist, cone in irredeemable shards. For a long time I just wanted to be wanted and would jump at any opportunity to reward someone for taking interest in me. It didn’t matter if I wanted them. And very soon I would realize that I didn’t and I would wriggle with discomfort and withdraw awkwardly. I came in like hot fudge and then hardened into a tacky lump. I hurt some people and I hurt myself.

Even after my injury I continued to engage in unfulfilling sexual adventures, despite the fact that the nerves going to my hoohah were all but severed, like a thread of life in the hands of Atropos. I didn’t believe in love like I used to. I had my one true love and it shattered. I just wanted to have fun. To be vital.

I still don’t know if I believe that love can last. When I talk about marriage or commitment it’s always with the expectation that it will eventually end. Probably because I don’t believe I can sustain the feelings. Lately I don’t even want to bother conjuring feelings to begin with. Sometimes I miss kisses and cuddles, but thoughts of sex are tinged with darkness. I’m not the girl I used to be who would prove by hook or by crook her burgeoning sexuality. I don’t know at this point if I even qualify as a sexual being. When I walk around with my strange hobble and my cane I can’t help but wonder if people see me as null. I certainly don’t have a sexy swagger and my AFOs kind of kill the elegance of any outfit I put on.

Next time I have sex I want to be in love. I want the desire to be mutual. It’s been eight months and I wouldn’t say I don’t care, but it certainly doesn’t motivate me. A couple days ago I reopened my dating profile thinking maybe I’d get back in the game. Last night I dreamt of my capital X. I was crying and begging him to care about the things I care about because I loved him and wanted to be with him. When I woke up I closed my account again. Maybe I’m better off alone for now.



Lady Sundae by Camille WillisMr Sundae by Camille Willis


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