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hate sex

The first time I dreamt we had sex, I woke up sweating and smiling. You were sweet, cared for my body, loved me despite, all the things I’d always wanted. I fell back asleep hoping you’d still be there but you’d gone home to your wife. When I saw you the next day you only looked at me to toss me a grin that sat in my stomach.

The next time I dreamt we had sex we were both frustrated. I woke up sweating and seething, desperate to yell at you and push you into a headboard. I fell back asleep and dreamt we screamed across cubicle walls, and when I saw you the next day I had to pretend I wasn’t angry.

The third time I dreamt we had sex was right after I admitted in therapy that maybe (okay fine, definitely) I had fallen in love with you. Your face was blurry but I woke up sweating and sure it had been you. I fell back asleep in fits and starts, wishing I could talk to you. I didn’t see you the next day.

The final time I dreamt we had sex I had never been so fucking angry. We tore at each other, someone elbowed someone in the face, and I woke up sweating and calmer than I’d been in months. I fell back asleep into a dreamless darkness. I never saw you again.



Melissa Boles is a writer, storyteller, and impatient optimist from the Pacific Northwest who recently relocated to Tennessee. Her writing focuses on art, mental health, love, and the human connection. Melissa has been published in The Daily Drunk, Emerge Literary Journal, Stone of Madness Press, and at Fanfare and Sexology on Medium. Her forthcoming chapbook, We Love in Small Moments, will be published through ELJ Editions, Ltd. in May 2021. You can find her at MelissaBoles.com or at @melloftheball.

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