I kinda used someone last night. He knows the score. He knows exactly where we stand, I was extremely clear that I do not want a relationship with him, that I will not be pursuing him in any other way.

We slept together. It was lovely. We watched a movie about love, "Love, Actually" and chit chatted. We were both tired, snuggly, warm. He's got a soft, warm, strong body, and rockclimber's hands. He's cute. He's affectionate. He's an artist and an athlete. He doesn't fulfill me intellectually. I've known him for a little while now. Maybe since January or thereabouts? Maybe a little later than that.

He's a serial monogamist, which is why I worried about sleeping with him casually like that. I didn't want him to expect more from me or get hurt. He might anyway, so I won't make a habit of this.

The guiltiest part:

It felt so nice to be wrapped up with someone. He's got long arms and a barrel chest and his skin is always toasty and I felt so enveloped. He cocooned me up and made me feel small and taken care of. He rubbed my back and stroked my skin and the touch was too much for me to just be cold and distant, I needed it so much. He likes my round hips and ass. He likes my hair. I used him to feel loved and wanted and cared for in a physical capacity.

Normally this backfires because it's even emptier on the fellow's side. Usually it's he who is doing the using. Normally after this kind of encounter I feel more empty than before. But with him it's different because he's not using me. He's the serial monogamist. He doesn't know how to fuck for nothing, nor does he want to.

Which is why I feel guilty. I took good care of him though. I was kind and gentle and I said lovely things to him, and I meant them, because he IS lovely. It's me that isn't. Not in this case.