Stop Expecting Her to Accept Your Apology; Start Expecting Her to Be Happy

Author Demez F. White

Author Demez F. White

Women have more respect for you when you’re genuine and this goes for every aspect of life. Do you love her? Do you want to protect her from anyone that talks about her or wants to do wrong by her? If the answer to those questions is yes, then why be insincere? If your woman puts on a dress that’s not flattering or a pair of jeans that do nothing for her shape, why tell her what you think she wants to hear? Do you want her going out with her friends, going to work, looking a mess? Because if you look her in the eyes and say, “Baby, you look amazing!” She’s going to believe you. When she walks into that office looking like a fool, that’s on you. Just be honest, “I don’t like the way that’s fitting you, what about that purple dress?”

If you’re going to apologize to a woman you hurt; stop expecting her to accept it. Stop expecting that all will be forgiven because you now feel remorse or understand what you did was wrong. Apologies are meant to let someone know that you are truly sorry and remorseful for what you did. They aren’t meant so that you can get your foot back in the door. They aren’t tools for longer conversations that you hope turn into dates that you hope make her remember what you used to have. Women respect sincerity, maybe she’ll never look at you like she once did. Maybe she’ll never hug you and melt because of your cologne or watch you sleep but she’ll respect you. Sometimes an apology isn’t a “Maybe we can be friends” but it’s an “Now we can finally move on.”

You know the best apology you can give a woman? It’s not words, it’s showing her that you’re the man she always thought you could be. Women are so cool because unlike men, their love doesn’t die but it transitions. She can not want you but can be happy that you’ve grown and will never treat another woman like you treated her. That lets her know she mattered, that you learned from losing her and because of her you became this man that she once loved the idea of.

The day I knew I grew up was the day I decided that not every wrong deserves an apology. Not every broken heart deserves a love letter. Letting someone go, letting them be happy, that’s you saying, “I’m sorry and I wish you a lifetime of love and happiness.” When you’re constantly trying to find ways to wiggle back into their lives for the same half -hearted apologies, you aren’t allowing them the chance to be happy.

Real love, that love that burns your chest when you can’t sleep. That love that causes food you used to love to taste like bile in your mouth. That love is reserved for the people we never want to see hurt. It’s reserved for the people that come into our lives like a tornado and rip away the memory of anyone that came before them. Love like that means you have to let them go.

Taste This for Me

At first I thought it was in my head but every time I ignored it the knock got louder. Getting up from my desk, having to hold the wall for a second not realizing how much I’d drank I walked to the door.

Looking out the window I recognized her car. I wasn’t sure what she was doing here but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t smile.

Opening the door, her bouncing from one foot to the next in the short dress she stepped inside and hugged me. Her body sinking into mines, sucking up my warmth. For minutes nothing was said, neither of us moved. My back against the door, my hands rubbing her back, rubbing her ass. Her squeezing me like I’d run away if she let go.

“How did you know I didn’t have company?” I said it playfully but I was serious.

“Fuck whatever company you would have had. ” She said it squeezing me tighter but I knew her. She would have knocked on the door anyway.

Going to the couch, her hand on mines. I was expecting her to sit next to me but she straddled me. Looking me in my eyes, rubbing my hair, tracing my lips with her fingers.

“Can I ask you a question?” She asked.

“Of course.” I traced her nipples with my tongue through her dress.

“Instead of writing about me, why not just call me? Text me?” She kissed me forehead and placed her hands behind my head.

“How do you know I’m writing about you? It’s fiction remember.” Standing up, stepping out of her panties and climbing back on top she smiled and started to kiss my neck.

“Save that for your groupies writer. You forget who I am? Taste this for me.” Putting her fingers between her legs and putting them to my mouth I never took my eyes off of her.

“I’m drunk, I’m horny, all I want is some head. To ride your dick. And an omelette. If the omelette is good maybe I’ll suck your dick all nasty like you like it.” While she was talking she was pulling it out. Spitting on her fingers, rubbing it, looking at me she sat on it.

Her hands on my head, my hands on her hips, our rhythm perfect. My fit inside of her perfect. No words were spoken after that, no music playing in the background or adjusting positions. Just the sounds of her wetness absorbing my hardness. Just the sounds of pleasure before the dawn hours.