Conquests

The man I slept with last night is sending me photos of his son.
He told me how wonderful it was spending time with me, how desirable I am, how much he appreciates me.
I don’t normally go for Latino men, but he was charming; soft in the right ways, attentive in a way I’ve forgotten men can be. He knew how to take care of a woman, and for a moment, I let myself be taken care of.

Tonight, it was someone different. A boy though he told me he was in his early thirties, he had the baby face of someone still figuring himself out. He was cute. The kind of cute that makes you want to squeeze his cheeks and laugh.

From the moment he stepped into my apartment, he made himself at home. It always surprises me how easily some people can melt into a space they’ve never been in, how quickly they can feel like they belong. He didn’t hesitate—he just settled in, smiling, reaching for me, telling me over and over how beautiful I am.

And I can admit this now: I need to hear that.
I need that validation just to keep breathing some days.
After being so beaten down—emotionally, physically, mentally—by my ex and his family, I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be seen, to be wanted, to be cared for.

For now, in these stolen hours, I’m allowing myself to enjoy it. These little escapades—they feel like freedom. A few hours where I feel loved, even if it’s not forever.

He brought sushi from one of my favorite restaurants. We ate dinner, laughed, and then started fooling around. He had the energy of someone in his twenties—fast, intense, playful. A baby tiger. He made me finish within minutes, and even I was surprised at how easily my body let go. Normally, it isn’t like that for me.

And then, when he came, I watched his whole body shake; like a tremor, like a tic, something wild and unrestrained. I had never seen anything like it. Maybe it’s just how he is, maybe it was the moment. I don’t know. But it made me laugh softly to myself, a little spark of life I didn’t know I still had in me.

He kissed me afterward, told me how much he liked me, asked when he could see me again.

For the first time in a long time, I felt something warm bloom in my chest.
Not love. Not forever.
But a reminder: I am still here. I am still wanted. I am still alive.

—————

I slept with another man.

He told me he wasn’t feeling hot, but honestly, all a man needs is a beard and a dick.
I laughed and told him, In my next life, I want to come back as a man.

It’s hard for me to tell these men what I’m really going through.
How my ex treated me.
The truth feels too heavy, too ugly, too degrading to speak out loud.

He tells me a story about one of his friends cheating on his girlfriend. Of course, I know the guy—he’s friends with my ex. Birds of a feather flock together, I think. This is just the type of men they are: trust‑fund, strong jawline, never hearing the word no. Massive drug problems but always the most popular guy in the room.

We fool around and he tells me how amazing and firm my body is.
And for a moment, I feel it—I feel good in my skin again.

I’ve been an athlete all my life. Even now, five months pregnant, thirty pounds heavier, I’m surprised by my own confidence. I was model‑skinny before—heroin chic, we used to call it, though I’d never touch that. I was on Ozempic just to stay a size 00. Now my waist has grown so many inches I can’t button any of my old pants. I live in dresses now, letting fabric drape over the curves that have come with this new life inside me.

It feels nice to be desired by these men—because clearly, the man I love has no interest in me. He made fun of me for gaining five pounds. Five. I can’t imagine what he’d say now, with thirty‑plus added to my frame. Is that why he’s avoiding me? Is that why he’s cheating? Or does he just not care at all?

He pulls my long blonde hair as he takes me from behind, and once again I’m lost in that sweet release. Bliss. A rare moment of clarity.

And I wonder—am I starting to become addicted to sex? Or am I just clawing my way back to feeling something, anything, after being so numb?

Of course, I miss my partner—his body, his touch, the way I thought he loved me. I’m furious that he gives himself to other women so freely. But at this point, there is nothing I can do.

I have to regain my strength.
My confidence.
I have to remember who I am.

I am a confident woman.
And in my right mind, I would never allow a man to treat me the way he did.
He walked all over me, treated me with zero respect.
No one has ever treated me so horribly—yelling at me in front of his family and friends, treating me like I was his servant, his slave.

But I see it now:
I was never his partner.
I was his prisoner.