You Deserve Better

Khol-wrapped eyes, I fantasise about pushing you up against the wall. I’ve seen off my mate who wanted to ask you on a date, and for the next two hours I will fall for you.

Stone cold sober, I asked what drinks I should order, and you said you wanted to get drunk on top of me. Literally. So we talked about Roald Dahl’s military history, and we said a few words to some other people at the party, including my mate who knew he’d lost you. To me.

Of course I let you lead the way. Was this your first time with a woman? Happy, ecstatic, orgasmic wonder. You seemed to know what you were doing.

You left that man behind, closed the door and found what new things there were to find. You found me, one rainy night at a writers’ party.

My mate hardly said a word as he drove me home except, ‘You and Emily seemed to get along.’

‘I’m not interested,’ I said.

He didn’t say anything other than that.

There was so much more I could have said. Like the way you held my hands when you gave me head, or the way I held you when you cried and told me about your ex – the boyfriend who had lied to you. And cheated and broke your heart.

And I told you I’d only do the same. I’d do the same and I wouldn’t want to do that or be that or make you think that I wouldn’t. Because I would. The way I am with women, it’s damaged. It’s no good to you or all the other girls I’ve turned down this week, this month, do you get it? I don’t want to do that to you, Emily.


So I didn’t.

I ignored your attempts to get me on my own and I pretended I didn’t understand when you hinted. You said I could give my mate your phone number. I’d told you he is a good mate to have. So I gave my mate your phone number and I told him to just be friends, to be careful with you. Between the lines I saw that a man had smashed you against a wall and kicked you when you tried to call for help.

Emily, I told my mate I wasn’t interested in you, and now four years later I am writing about you, wishing that my mate hadn’t rushed you.

But he was insecure and you needed security and friendship, and you didn’t need a boyfriend right then. You needed a friend. You needed trust in which you could put your fragility, and you needed time that would allow you to heal. But he was fragile and broken. I wish I’d not given him your phone number as you had suggested because he added his own problems to your life that was congested with issues and brokeness and passions and forgetfulness. He forgot that you are also a person with needs and feelings and I’m sorry Emily. I’m sorry that I didn’t fuck you and keep you safe from another man messing with your head. I’m sorry I never fucked all those other girls and kept them safe from all those men and other girls who were fucked up by other men and other girls, who had been fucked up by other men and other girls. I’d like to protect them all. But I’m just another one of those girls who will fuck them up.

You deserve better, Emily.


Another new piece I have written that is based on true events. Only the name has been changed to protect the innocent. 


About catherinehume

Catherine Hume: Writer, social care worker and a liver of a life less ordinary.
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