THE BEST PART OF BREAKING UP IS BREAKUP SEX

We were out drinking on Valentine's Day when I decided to break up with him. I felt bad because he was such a nice guy – a southern gentleman, if that's even a thing that still exists – but I never felt the spark for him that I think he felt for me.

I was comfortable in the relationship, which made the whole thing hard. My previous two boyfriends were rollercoasters of dependency, addiction, fights, late nights throwing dishes at each other. But with him it was easy: nights and weekends only. He never stayed over, always took the train home. We'd watch Netflix, get drunk, have sex. And he was really good in bed.

Also, he was huge. It hurt, but in a good way, if that makes sense. After we started sleeping together, I looked online and found some stretches that my roommate caught me doing in the living room one night and made me explain myself.

She called it my “pussy yoga”.

I started doing the stretches in my bedroom after that.

All I really cared about was the sex, not him. I knew I was rebounding, and it made me feel terrible because I knew it wasn't fair.

And then he came to the bar with that little red box of chocolates and his crooked smile and if he were a guy I really liked, I think I would have been touched.

But with him I just felt pity.

Not serious pity, but like I just wanted to comb his hair with my fingers and shake my head slowly. I told him thank you for the gift, downed the rest of my drink, and went to the bathroom. Sat on the toilet with my pants down even though I didn't have to pee and thought for awhile.

I had never broken up with anyone before. How does it work? Again, I liked him. I didn't “like” like him, but he was a good guy, a nice Georgia boy with a cute slight accent and such a sweetheart, like when he brought me soup and NyQuil when I was sick and stayed home from work.

So I didn't want to break his heart, I wanted to let him down easy, I wanted to stay friends (I know everyone says that but it was actually actually true in this case!)

I got my phone out of my purse and googled it: “How to break up with a guy”.

The first page I clicked on had pictures of Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Zooey Deschanel from “500 Days of Summer”, so I had to at least skim through it. It said to do it in a public place (check), at the end of the day (check), to do it in person and not over the phone or text (check and check), and to do it sober (uh oh).

I continued to skim for more advice on the list, but then there was a loud banging on the door. I guess I had been in here for awhile, so I flushed and faked washing my hands and went back out.

I whispered my rehearsed lines: “Listen,” I said, almost inaudibly. “We need to talk...”

listenweneedtotalk listenweneedtotalk listenweneedtotalk listenweneedtotalk

Time slowed down on my walk back to my stool. I closed my eyes for a moment and took some long, deep breaths. I felt a big weight in my chest, my arms heavy with anticipation.

He had bought me another beer, so we clinked glasses and I started chugging mine, trying to get up the nerve to do what I had made up my mind to do. I rehearsed it in my head: It's Not You, It's Me; It's Just Not The Right Time; You're A Great Guy, But...

I set the drink down and he gave me what I imagine he thought was a sexy look, and asked me if I wanted to get out of there to head back to his place.

That was the time. I should have ended it right there, but I felt suddenly felt hot all over, my palms got sweaty, and I was tongue-tied, didn't know how to form the words. So I just nodded, finished the rest of my drink, and we walked out together.

**

I knew it wasn't a good idea. I should have ended it at the bar, not because I was worried about how he'd react or because I was scared or anything, but because it would have been a cleaner break and I then could have just gone home, put on my comfy pants, ate some late-night tacos, and moved on with my life.

But then I thought at least I could get one more romp out of the whole thing. It was a really cold night, I realized as we walked to the train: the kind of cold where the wind hit your face so hard as you trudged to the train that you'd turn around and walk backwards. He kissed me under the heat lamp on the El platform as we shivered in each other's arms, hugging hard to keep the body heat in. Sometimes, in those rough Chicago winters, I swear sometimes we'd have sex just to keep warm.

Back at his place, he turned the thermostat up, poured us glasses of whiskey, turned the lights down with one of those knobs instead of a switch on the wall, and ran to his room to get something.

He came back with a little black boom box, his iPod already plugged into the top.

“What's this?” I asked.

“I made a mix,” he said, smiling.

“What kind of mix?”

“A make-out mix!” he said, raising an eyebrow and pressing play. He sat down on the blue love seat in the corner of the room and motioned for me to join him as a Maroon 5 song played.

I sat next to him, not knowing where to put my hands as he stroked my leg. He patted his lap, to indicate that he wanted me to sit there. I turned my head away to cough, realized I was rolling my eyes. I straddled him like he asked, and he kissed me.

The more he pushed, staring deep into my eyes, Adam Levine's falsetto in the background, the more I just wanted to laugh. But I also didn't want to hurt his feelings – I wouldn't even have been at his apartment in the first place if I didn't.

So I leaned into it. I started kissing him back, with force. I shoved my tongue far inside his mouth. I put his hand down my pants. I moaned loud when he sucked my neck. I grabbed him by the arm and took him to his room and fucked his brains out.

He was in the bathroom taking the condom off, having a post-sex pee when I looked around at his room – the rock and roll posters, the IKEA furniture, the futon mattress on the floor – when I finally got the courage. He came back to bed and he tried to cuddle up with me, but I propped my elbows on a pillow and just start talking, no rehearsing.

“Listen,” I said, frowning. “We need to talk...”

“Oh no,” he said.

I soldiered on:

“I think you're really great. I do. I just don't know if I'm really ready for anything serious, and what we have is great, but I'm worried I'm just like stringing you along, you know?”

I continued to talk, watching his reaction. He dropped his head into his hands and pushed it back, and I suddenly realized how naked I was as I looked at his Adam's apple moving up and down in his throat.

He cried. He was about to start to crying? I don't know: his head was still in his hands, but he was bent over, his head in his lap, hugging his legs, shielding his face from me, from the world.

I look at his back. I could see the ridges of his spine, his ribs, his shoulder blades. He was beautiful, really. I wished I liked him more.

I hugged him to comfort him. I started kissing him again, could taste the whiskey on his breath, realized how drunk he must have been, how drunk I probably was as well.

We had sex again and fell asleep.

**

When I woke up the next morning, he had made me breakfast in bed.

“Good morning, you,” he said. He placed the tray over me and gave me a big kiss, laid down next to me and nuzzled my neck.

Something wasn’t right. I was hungover and not thinking clearly. Did I just imagine breaking up with him and not actually do it? Did we get back together in the middle of the night and I just don’t remember it? Or was he so drunk that he doesn’t remember it?

“So: what do you want to do today?” he asked, munching a piece of toast.

“Um,” I said. “What?”

“I thought we could go to the zoo, but it might be too cold.”

I looked at him, cocked my head. Bingo — he didn’t remember.

“You remember what we talked about last night, right?”

“What conversation?” he asked, sipping coffee. He had the most innocent look on his face, and it broke my heart.

As of the night before, I had never broken up with anyone. Now I had to do it to the same guy. Twice in a row.

Now that I knew how to break up with someone, I swore I'd do it better with the next guy. But first, I had to finish this one. I took a deep breath and a big sip of my coffee.

“Listen,” I said. “We need to talk...”