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The Think Tank

No matter how good the sex is and I just want to KO, I always make sure to partake in “post-sex rituals”. Fortunately and unfortunately for me, sex that night was ridiculous. I remember tippy-toeing to the bathroom to wash up, then coming back to the bedroom to search for my clothes in the dark. Panties – check. Shirt – check. Women’s tank top – WAIT A MINUTE, I DIDN’T PACK A TANK TOP?

This muthafucka.

I calmly walked into bed, and laid down with my back towards him. Immediately he put his arm around my waist, and for a few seconds I considered on just letting the whole thing blow over. Afterall, he wasn’t my man and we were both free to do as we pleased. I just found it inconsiderate and rude to blatantly have another woman’s shit chillin next to my overnight bag. Especially, when I always made sure to never leave so much as a bobby-pin behind. Because I knew what we were, and I knew what we weren’t. I understood our relationship, but did she? Was there a reason she felt like she could just leave her shit lying around? Above everything, I didn’t want to be caught up in some “situation,” or unknowingly be “the other woman.”

“You don’t have a girlfriend do you?” I asked nonchalantly. “I just found a tank top that wasn’t mine.”

What he said after that doesn’t even matter, because the next morning I packed up my things and realized that not only did I leave my bra and top from the last time I was there, but I also left my TANK TOP I wore with the outfit too. Yes, that tank-top. To say I felt stupid would’ve been an understatement. Because when I discovered it the night before all I kept thinking was some broad obviously felt like she had clout to claim her territory – SMFH.

But you know what the worst part was? When I unpacked my bag at home, and looked at this plain, black tank top with spaghetti straps once again – I realized that indeed this specific one (even though I owned two similar, one of which I did wear the last time I saw him) wasn’t mine. OH YOU’VE GOT TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME. At that point, I couldn’t tell if I just had really good observation skills or was going crazy.

The moral of this story isn’t that I’m crazy, or have a memory that rivals Lucy in 50 First Dates. The moral is, if you think you’re capable of just banging someone, you shouldn’t give a fuck if some other chicks shirt is lying around his house. Stressing over someone your ego cares more about than your heart isn’t worth it. And if you know you want to be more than just someone’s bang, make sure it’s with someone you genuinely, whole-heartedly trust so that when he says it’s your sock, your hair-tie, your lotion, your anything, you have no reason not to believe him.

Now please excuse me while I stitch my initials onto all my blank tank tops.

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