twenty : a silver sliver

(unrequited) love letters: a series

slut work
6 min readDec 21, 2021


Twenty and I met at a mutual friend’s birthday party. Before we had introduced ourselves, I had spotted him across the room, nudged my close friend and said “I want that one”. I honestly don’t know what possesses me to say such boldly confident things like that, probably the same part of me that feels entitled to write about my love life and post tasteful nudes on the internet.

Regardless, as we’re mingling - I write this with more than a tinge of heartache. Remember parties? Making new friends? Mingling with strangers? *sigh*- I at some point, reconnect with my friend and he tells me “Guess what, that guy has a girlfriend- she’s over there. And she knows who you are.”

Satisfying words to the ego, yet a little worrisome nonetheless. Turns out, she worked at my yoga studio. Well, fuck.

Fast forward a few months, at the height of summer we see each other again at Wayhome. We exchange information, as I conveniently hear he’s no longer in a relationship. Drugs and dancing accelerated the already existing chemistry and three long shower-less festival days later, we make plans to go on a date in the city.

Albeit, there were more than a few red flags: I learn that he and his girlfriend had only recently broken up, and they still lived together and shared a dog, taking turns staying at their place or friends’ to avoid crossing paths.
He also texted me all day everyday - I’m talking “Good morning to Good night” kind of texting. And for anyone that texts me these days can attest to, I am not that kind of texter, you’re lucky if I respond within the same week. But it’s 2016 and I was not having a great year (in hindsight, have I ever?) and after making an awkward social blunder within my close friend group, I was keen on having a distraction.

We had gone on a few dates, but never slept together; his current living situation made it awkward and I lived in an old air conditioned-less house on the second floor in the middle of a heat wave. I wasn’t even sleeping in my own bed, but was taking refuge on the couch on the main level.
Sexual tension clearly peaking, he eventually invites me to stay over. I meet him after having a couple of drinks. As a hospitality industry professional, a couple of drinks translates to : I’m damn near sober. He however, was not — not at all in a bad way, just on a far different level than I was expecting but it didn’t matter. The non-stop flirting, vigorous making out, weeks-long foreplay was over and we had finally arrived to the main event! So I foolishly thought.

I should back up a bit and mention that I was on my period at that point. And it turns out, I remember this one very clearly because it was the one I decided to try out the DivaCup in my efforts to be more socially conscious. It also wasn’t going so well. You see, I had been having a hard time getting the cup out, prior to this evening it had taken me an average of 20+ minutes.

So clearly, as we’re about to get intimate you can understand the sheer panic I felt when I realized that I was going to have to take this puppy out of me first.

Now, you’re probably thinking…

Why did you decide to wear a DivaCup that night?
Well, I wasn’t going to give up my quest to be a better human so quickly and I wasn’t expecting to see him that night.

Why wouldn’t you wait to sleep with him another time?
It had been over a month of making out all over the city, I graduated earlier that year and didn’t know what I was doing in life, I just confessed my feelings to one of my best friends weeks prior which was a goddamn disaster and holy shit I just needed to get FUCKED.

Anyway. I realized his level of intoxication might work to my advantage. Would he really be able to tell if I’d snuck off to the bathroom for two or twenty minutes?
After some strategic pelvic floor manoeuvres , I manage to get it out of me — I quickly realize I have no idea how much time has passed and brief moment of relief quickly turns to internal panic.

If I’m in here too long he might be wondering what I’m doing, he might even think I’m taking a shit, and I don’t want him to think that I’m the kind of person that takes a shit in someones house the very first time they visit, or takes a shit right before they fuck, because either would be really fucking weird and I would like to keep seeing him. More importantly, what if butt stuff was on the table?

As this inner paranoid monologue rambles, it also comes to my attention that I have nowhere to hide this silicone cup and I’m not wearing much at this point.

Do I hide it in the bathroom and get it later? What if I forget, and his ex-girlfriend finds someone else’s menstruation cup in her house. No no no, thats definitely weirder than shitting in someone’s house the first time. Best not to do that.

I decide to hold it and try and keep it out of sight, tucking it the back pocket of my denim shorts when I get back into his room. And thus: sexy stuff ensues.

As things escalate, their french bulldog gets progressively more agitated-his wheezing is even more audible than usual, seemingly on a mission to cock-block me as I can imagine he’s probably wondering,

Who the fuck is this bitch? Where is my mom? And why are you doing stuff you do to mom to her?

At this point, it’s more than distracting: we pause, as Twenty tries to shoo him out of the room and close the door, except the door doesn’t quite fit into the frame properly and the frenchie busts right back in and tries vehemently to jump on the bed, unsuccessfully, which only increases his aggressive panting.

Frenchie eventually stops, and I can only hear the sweet sounds of slapping and clapping as one should in moments like these. Then, he emits a noise so strange, we both stop. Frenchie’s not doing so well, he’s choking.

He found my fucking diva cup and is now choking on it.

Fuck me.

I honestly blanked at how we responded to that entirely, I think for my own sanity I must have blocked that out. We cuddle, fall asleep and have sex again in the morning- no notable events this time. Bless.

Twenty informs me that his ex is going to stop by to drop something off so we have to leave, but suggests we get brunch before he drops me off at home. I help him make the bed, and he tidies up meticulously. I naively assume, he likes to keep things clean (ten points to Gryffindor). We go out for a cute brunch as I emotionally let myself enjoy this nice moment, after what could’ve ultimately been a catastrophe. It was very short lived, even by my standards.

His phone buzzes, he’s visibly nervous and tells me, “I should take this.” He goes outside to take the call, as I continue sipping my mimosa and basking in that euphoric post-sex glow. I look up to see Twenty pacing outside, gesturing and clearly stressed. We lock eyes as he has a look of sheer panic on his face: there it is, the beginning of the end.

He returns to the table, flustered. Turns out, what I assumed were habits of cleanliness was just his attempt at erasing evidence that I was ever there. And his meticulous efforts were to avoid in fact, what had just happened.
Twenty shows me a photo on his phone his ex had just sent him : the smallest silver sliver of what could only be a condom wrapper. And by the look on his face, she had torn him apart about it.

Rightly so, we did just have sex in the bed they once shared, in front of their fur baby, while I was on my period. A certain level of intimacy I would not want know about with a very recent ex.

We did still see each other and sleep with each other a bit after, but almost killing his dog with my menstrual cup and having his ex-girlfriend ream him out shortly after would put a big damper on hot and heavy stuff, there really is no way of coming back from that.



slut work

autobiographical | semi-original content | an ongoing experiment in vulnerability