I sometimes wonder if I’ve made an impact on any of the men’s lives I’ve dated. I don’t understand man emotions because they have never been explained to me, but I wonder if I’ve caused them pain or sadness. In such times, I take comfort in the possibility that I might have mattered in some way. Not enough to come after me. Not enough to not let me go. But maybe I mattered in some way that I’ll never understand.

But.
Then.
I remember.
Comfort is completely self-serving.

What keeps coming to mind is this guy I dated once who was really nice (I’ll call him Larry Kerry because he had a name that rhymed just like that). I liked him, but the other guy I was dating was just more exciting and I had a greater chemistry with him. The other guy, I ultimately chose, and he turned out to be an asshole of astronomical proportions.

Larry Kerry was a computer analyst and former Navy man. He tried out for the SEALS but had to drop out due to an injury. He pondered working for the FBI. He was tall, graying a little early but it was sexy. He was always so nervous around me. I felt flattered and sympathetic. He wore a little too much cologne. And he downed a glass of red wine right before we left a restaurant and I realized once I was in his car, I should’ve insisted on driving.

Still. There was nothing wrong with him. He just wasn’t an asshole or The Asshole I wanted. I let him go and do not regret it. I do not think of him with any particular fondness. I mainly feel nothing.

Which is why comfort is completely self-serving because I imagine I’m the Larry Kerry of most of the men I’ve dated.

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