Thursday, August 28, 2008

Fuck chess

I've been trapped in a catch-22 checkmate leapfrog wrestle-crush. Out of nowhere and completely visible. I let this happen and I am the only one to blame.

All I can fool myself into beleiving is that he is at home thinking the same things, saying he shouldn't call, we shouldn't hang out, distance is best. Otherwise, I am the fool. The smell of this clothes, the flip flops crushing bees, the way he looks just like a 10-year-old boy in certain light, the way I started to see other sides of him, the way he opened up my ass slowly over candlelight.

I am fucked.



Fucking how this happened.... fuck.

And then, it is only logical and reasonable and the next best move to be retreat. Protection and calm and far from assault or risk. All my balls landed in his court. Although I played it cooly, I still gave more than he did. I risked greater distances across the board. In my honor, I did verbalize my recognition that in no way was he manipulating me since I was compliant and interested in all the activities. Granted, in my admission, I wonder if I wasn't completely transparent.

I can only hope he's not fucking "Catwoman" or maybe I hope he is.

God, I need the vacation in Cinque Terre. I do. I do. Get back to myself. Get free again. Be quiet and solitary with a good friend. Drink wine and eat pesto. I need to get out of here.


I hate this part of the beautiful living.



It's not love. It's some crazy lust.

I know this because I have no fashion on making him a life partner or fostering children from Africa or my own belly with him. I could never see a life where we lived in the same apartment or visited every weekend. There's just not enough substance between us.

It's just that he's so damn nice on the eyes. And somewhat aloof. And can give a crazy ass hard spanking. And is free in that kind of rich-guy freedom, where he can go to work with slicked back hair, a suit, a tie, and use a shoe-horn to get into his expensive shoes. Then, take the hour lunch on the beach, swim for 20 minutes, lay on the sand, have girls laugh because he thinks his balls might be hanging out since the suit is torn, go back to work, catch the train, be back by 4:30pm to ride out to bees. In a painter's suit. And flip-flops. And Captain America motorcycle helmut. And a gay scarf. And then, to kill bees with his bare hand, make honey, steal stealthily from bees, organize things in an OCD fashion like stacking bee houses, tell me to be calm when I freak out, and then grab a beer on the terrace afterwards, get Thai food, eat, and use the same manipulation tactics to touch my cunt, finger my ass, fuck me silly.

These are ... a few of my favorite things.

Power, money, freedom. Who wouldn't fall for that?

So, to have it and then to not have it is a jolt.

My god he's so beautiful. And simple. He thinks I'm a spy for all the photos I take of everything. I think he's an impostor for how simply he lives.

Why have I fallen so fast and hard?

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