So, my rockstar was in town for a spell. Holy Mother Fuck, it has been so fucking lovely; it’s been so lovely fucking. I encountered this particular rockstar for the first time over three years ago. He sang me a song looking deep into my eyes. I fell desperately in lust. Later, smoking a cigarette together, I was drunk enough to tell him: “Your voice is so beautiful; I get emotional every time I hear you sing.” He replied: “Aww, well aren’t you just a little sweetheart. Do you wanna come back to my place and get in my hot tub with me?” Obviously my response was an enthusiastic YES.
So that pretty much ended my relationship with the guy I had been living with for two years. And that was hard and it really sucked. But it is a decision I do not regret. However, a few weeks later, my rockstar promptly moved the fuck to New York City. Now it is three years later, and my rockstar texted me to tell me he’s back in town for a bit, and I should come over. I was offended; how dare he think he can just hit me up three years later and I would just come running. I told him I was busy fucking someone else. At first he told me to have fun, but then continued to beg me to come over anyway. So the next night, I went running over to his place. FUCK YES.
The thing is, he’s THAT GUY. It’s not just the great sex. It’s that he feeds me whiskey, cigarettes, and cocaine. He sings me songs. His voice sounds like the angels fell from heaven and are having a drunken orgy on your eardrums. His band is the tits. He introduces me to the coolest of the cool. His house is ridiculous. We go running naked back and forth from his hot tub to his enormous pool. We make love in the moonlight. And then we fuck all night in his big fluffy white bed. He eats pussy like it’s his calling. Oh, and he has a goddamned PUPPY for chrissake.
And I know I’m not the only chick he’s fucking. I don’t care. He’s hooked up with two of my friends, that I know about. I don’t care. He has dozens of model chicks and actress bitches at his disposal. I don’t care. He texts me at four in the morning. I don’t care. If I text him, he rarely texts back. I don’t care. He still has a pair of my earrings that I will never ever see again. I don’t care. All of my friends think he is a total dick. I don’t care. And in fact, his dickishness is exactly what I love about him. He doesn’t give a fuck about me other than to fuck me, and it’s amazing. He will choke me, spank me, pull my hair, and I fucking love it. He will also be sweet and romantic and tell me all sorts of things he won’t remember in the morning and I don’t fucking care.
Lots of girls get bent out of shape over dudes like this. Who don’t ‘respect’ them, who ‘treat them bad’, but keep sending them late night texts. And to this I say: Fuck It.
Who cares? Chances are he is not disrespecting you or trying to treat you poorly. He’s just not thinking about you at all, unless he wants you to come over right that instant. And I say, go over right that instant. When it’s good, it’s good, and when it’s great, it’s great. And don’t fucking worry about it. Get it while the getting is good and you will always have the memories of all those times you fucked that fucking rockstar and how much fucking fun you had.
He’s back in New York now. I might never see him again. Or maybe, in a few weeks, or a few months, or a few years, I might get a text thats says: hey its me come over. And I will fucking go. Because I love fucking him and I always will and I don’t give one single fuck about anything else. So go do it. Fuck your fucking rockstar. It’s worth it; I promise.
Just don’t leave anything at his house.