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This is less a loser ex story and more a loser me story, from the deepest darkest depths of my pick-me days and the turning point that made me decide men weren’t worth it.
In college, a foreign student I was having a fling with was about to move back to his home country, and I started freaking out about soon not having any source of male attention, when I was stopped by an MSF donations collector on the way to work. I’d seen him and spoken to him before and mentioned this, and as soon as I said it he started flirting with me and asked to take me out. He was so straight up that it kind of caught me off guard, but I was so thrilled that I was desirable enough for a man to want to have sex with lil’ ol’ me (eyeroll) that I accepted and took his number.
As I mentioned he was a street appealer/donation coordinator for Medicines Sans Frontiers, and surprise surprise, the holier-than-thou “community organiser” was a piece of shit romantic partner. Literally ignored everything I said unless it was organising a day I could come to his place to fuck, tried using my words against me, tried pressuring me into anal, kept trying to choke me after I told him I hated it. He was a 30 year old Soundcloud rapper who was still waiting for his “big break”. He was living in the penthouse of a backpackers with a communal kitchen he shared with 30 other people. He was also a drinker and a chain smoker and every time I visited him the floor was covered in cigarette butts with beer cans scattered across the room. Sometimes when we hooked up I would be so turned off that he himself would notice how dry I was and ask me to my face if I was into him. But that still didn’t stop him from fucking me almost completely dry.
The time I slept over and walked home at 6am in the middle of winter was my rock bottom, and the moment I realised that male attention was worthless compared to the time and energy it took to gain.