"How do I say this without sounding like a whore?"
"Don't say it."
Persuading myself that seeing him would not lead to sex was an effortless task. Following through with the 'no sex policy' was almost always another story. For example: if we were in the same town for two consecutive days we could deny the hump-chemicals for the first night (huge feat), but the next night was downhill straight to the crotch of things. We can be friends, right? That's where the lie starts. I knew I shouldn't have gone to the concert. I knew the jean tube skirt with black thigh high socks screamed DESPERATE, and I knew the eye fucking from across the venue cried LONELY. Both the thigh highs and eye contact were misdemeanors, the sex was the real crime, and the morning after was, well, the first day of a death sentence.
Unfortunately, I couldn't find my dignity next to my panties, and I'm pretty sure there's still a portion of my self-respect underneath his bed. Sex that means nothing isn't ALWAYS bad. Sex that means something to you, but nothing to the other participating party is ALWAYS bad. Actually it's the worst. First there's the nagging shame which whites out the moments leading up to the climax (literally), and then the disappointment of realizing my vagina didn't magically convince him to be my boyfriend (Thought cloud: I don't believe it! He even held my hand last night).
Put the scenario above on repeat. Apparently I'm not a hands-on learner.
It's unbelievable how lying to yourself can become second nature, and how normal it can feel to blame someone else for your sadness. We so often know what needs to be fixed in our lives, but figuring out where to start paralyzes us. It's scary. You can be invested in love, but baby, that doesn't mean it's not purely a sex thing. Define what love looks like to you, and go towards your worthiest notion of it.
We all play a role. Feel empowered by the fact that you get to choose the role you play. Remember ladies, you'll never win an Oscar for playing the victim.