Hey—I’m sorry. I’m not going to be able to see you again.
I messed up last time. I let myself catch feelings for you. Thought I could keep it just fucking, but I felt too much of an emotional and intellectual pull to you. I’d been able to have a lover in the past because he was an ex—I already knew I didn’t feel the connection to him I needed to be in a loving relationship. I broke our unspoken contract, and I’m sorry.
The responsibility I give to you in this, however, is that my confusion stemmed from when we added the daily texting, vulnerable sexual fantasies, pieces of our history, our stories, into our exchanges. Don’t call me beautiful. Don’t text me at 7 am from work. I expect drunk phone calls and lurid, lusty texts, but the sweet, gentle, kind sentiments do not belong in a purely sexual relationship between strangers.
The way you went away hurt me. It was abrupt, and without explanation. You started dating someone? OK, awesome. Moving on. Just communicate. I am confused and I am so angry at myself for breaching the stipulations of the contract and letting myself care. Motherfucker. So angry.
So, all this to say: no, I don’t want to rendezvous next weekend.
Fool me once, shame on . . . you. Fool me . . you can’t get fooled again.
I guess I wanna be saved.