You're Perfect In Public, Neglected In Private
Perfect boyfriend. The words ring like an every day reminder for you. Perfect boyfriend. The way she says those words only prompts even further perfection from you, her voice a silky, sweet addiction you don’t see yourself ever getting over. But you’re not perfect. Far from it, and you fear the truth is only going to come out. You know something has to give. You know you’re going to get caught in your web of lies, but you can’t stop pretending to be the best for her, a game so encompassing, so consuming, it’s even better than playing with the devil herself.
How long can you go on like this? Pretending you’re not the little simp bitch you are. Acting like you’re not a lame who rehearses all the right words to say, just so she doesn’t dump you. She knows it’s all an act, and yet she stays with you, echoing the same words, over and over again. Perfect. Boyfriend. Maybe she does it simply because of how far from the truth it is, a gentle attempt to brainwash you into being all that you are not.
In a perfect world, you’d be all the things she wants from you, all the time. The world would shine on the both of you, power couple of the millennium, everyone and their mothers wishing they could either be you or be in you. The grandest façade in the whole world would be decked out with the most luxurious shopping trips, extended resort splurges, and flights just to sample desserts of foreign cities. Who needs to dream anymore when they pale in comparison to real life? She’d have it all, and you, her perfect boyfriend, would be the one to give it to her.
There would never be a catch, at least, not that the world would know about. To everybody else, you’re the full package. Hot, tall, successful, and a huge dick print that shows through the Loro Piana pants she picked out for you. You catch women looking at you, then the both of you, and then back at you, but the love of your life never seems to notice. She’s too busy trying not to think about the fact that when she gets home, she’s going to have to be alone with the real you.
The real you is terrifying. The real you is the little bitch that gets on his knees the second you get back to your perfect home. The real you simps for her on all fours in front of the altar you’ve built for her. The real you grovels until you can get a second of real, unfiltered attention from her, because if we’re being honest, you can’t get hard and fuck her right without it. She just stares at your floppy dick for a second and goes right back to swiping left and right (“Instagram” she calls it, though you’ve never seen that many bad photos of men on the app in your life). You want all that if you were on the outside would be so easy for you to get, but behind closed doors? Mission impossible. You get absolutely nothing.
You couldn’t even break up with her if you wanted to. Not only are you unable to fathom it yourself, everyone would think you lost your mind. They would clown on you for losing the best thing that’s ever happened to you. Not only would you mourn your loss, they’d mourn for you. How does one ever come back from a breakup like that? Hint: You don’t. While all of this will be completely earth-shattering for you, it will mean nothing to her. Guys like you are a dime a dozen to her, no matter how perfect you appear to the rest of the world. So you continue playing your little game, and make yourself comfortable in the cozy little corner of hell you’ve staked for yourself. All for the sake of being able to say you’re hers.
