Some stories about men

The Economist Beekeeper Sex God comes to me out of the stars and says he remembers me as there is light illuminating the sky over the Jura mountains.

I wonder why I adore this validation of my existence.

Pienso en vos como veo la madgrugada
Algunas dias duermo contenta en los brazos de un otro
Depertandome con las estrellas de noche autre fois

Otros dias me levanto y veo le soleil de manana
Y pienso gracias a dios que existe esta belleza en el mundo

Otros, miro los aviones cruzando el sol de apres-midi
Con los pajaros volando donde yo no puedo y las abejas tocando lo que yo no puedo

Y les matins that you come to me
And I open my curtains to your soft glow
Pienso autre fois que suerte tengo en ver y sentir y oir
El silencio de lejos
La luz de aqui
El conocimiento de alla
The new day rises again
And you are still with me



I do miss him.
And this is bad poetry.
More than offering a Goggles notifier, Google needs to offer a "You're about to send bad poetry to someone - is this what you really want to do?" notifier. Oh well.

The Filmmaker asked me something interesting recently. Saying he hasn't gone searching for Lola's blog, and requesting me to send snipits here and there, he asked if I had something less individual-story-like and more general over-arching story-like. I told him that's what the book is for, although the book will be compiled and published in probably ten years because the writing goes on and on. No. I don't have anything like that. And that question has been inside me for days. The overarching why. Not the existential "Who am I?" question, but the "Why do I do these things?" question, which leads to the former, I guess.

The compilation of lovers. The list we all make sometimes when we sit down and write all the names or all the stories that go with each lover for whom we've forgotten their name. Why am I attracted. Why do I get bored. What makes me feel like I'm on fire every month and have to hump every man in sight. Who is "Adam" - the inner 18-year-old boy who takes over and makes me want to call in sick to life and just fondle myself all day and night. My ring finger is longer than my pointer finger - which has been suggested to mean I've got more testosterone in my body than estrogen. What does that mean? How does it play out? Who are all my lovers and why do I seek them? If they were all in one room I know I'd look out and try to connect the dots and they'd just be insulted by looking at the others in comparison. There are no answers tonight, only more questions.

The Filmmaker came over late last week after I'd been drinking and he offered to take the cab. We talked and talked, I fired my co-organizer of the conference with an email he helped me write, and then we smoked in my apartment, and then we slept and around 3am he slowly fucked me in the double-futon. Now, the next-door teen girl won't look at me. We tried to be quiet. It's not my fault that the walls are paper thin or that she's disgusted.

This past Sunday I got all dolled up in thigh highs and skirt and went to the TV Prodcer's. We couldn't resist - despite my period - and fucked before we even got to dinner. I'm too self-conscious with him - that I'm smoking again and he's a non-smoker runner. That I'm not cute enough and he could have anyone. This latter is something I felt I out-grew with the relationship with the Economist. .... free thoughts.... I really did feel validated by him in a way. While he's trapped himself in a small town in a land-locked country in the middle of Europe, he's still so incredibly beautiful and relaxed and wealthy and laid back and focused and non-chalont and non-caring and comfortable in his own skin and predicaments. All these things made me feel unworthy and when he gave me attention I felt - validated. Coming back to school, a place that replicates high school in so many sick ways, I felt empowered thinking, I have been adored by someone who really shouldn't even give me the time of day. And his interest - and continued interest - as pathetic as this is, has given me more power. More self-esteem in a horrible way. I recognize that this is fucked up but secretly felt so much more assured walking into the school, being a conference organizer... Like, you all might think I'm xyz, but really I've been abc. And, again, the TV Producer is not a gorgeous stud man, he's not thrillingly intelligent - although, when I was explaining to him how I didn't feel so comfortable in lipstick and was hoping he wouldn't laugh and how I'm becoming more of a woman in a sense, he quoted "Second Sex" and "you aren't born a woman, but you are continuously becoming a woman." But the fact that he finds me mildly entertaining or interesting gives me some sick validation.

So, right, there we were fucking against his wall and then sitting so properly at his dining room table having Italian food. And then discussing art and music and politics like I had not just been bent over getting fucked from behind while my blood stained his shirt. And then, we went to his bedroom and I got on all fours on an ottoman and he spanked me for a good 20 minutes. We ended up in his bed and he snuggled me all night to where I was sweating in the boxer shorts he loaned me. I actually felt comfortable in some moments and then would wake up and need space. He got up and left before I did and I took my time showering, making coffee in his place, looking at the things that were visible to me.

But it's back to Adam creeping into my body and I'm starved for fucking. Since Sunday, which was nice with the TV Producer but I was bleeding which can make the whole scene different. Tomorrow I'll go find the Filmmaker for a short quick 3 hours before he leaves for Rome on the ...

uh oh

distracted into wondering if there's a way I can go with him and skip class on Friday.

trouble.

damn you Adam!

Lola is... My Morning Jacket

Reflecting at midnight on Friday.

I got back to Paris on 9/11. The last few days of Geneva were rain showers, sunny glory, and then drizzling on my way out of town. Very parallel to how I was feeling in those final days.

I got back from Cinque Terre, which was a wonderful trip, albeit not a pilgrimage, but a bonding experience with my good friend The Russian, and bonding with myself. I have yet to tell her that on the final day, after she left, I went out past the shoreline and into the deeper water, and as I saw her do earlier, floated on my back facing the tall hills. Serenity in salt water, relaxation in light waves, security in the steady rocks below my feet, stability in being able to see to the bottom, and a free soul in looking up at the dusty green hills that felt so much more mighty than me, with so much presence. I am humbled by things of greatness, be it size of the landscape, beauty of a person, the profundity within the air. I tried to force myself to remember the moment. And then I had a Corona while watching the sunset on my blanket with rocks jabbing into my back.

If you want the details of the conversation between me and The Economist Beekeeper Sex God, you should click the link to the right called Tumblr. I've been quick-posting there a lot lately. It's addicting like the Status of Facebook.

Maybe it had something to do with his beauty and my insecurity that made me wonder why the hell he was spending time with me. I have no idea what he got out of our liaisons, except the obvious: sex. But he could have had it with the chick he told me about who, during their hot date at her place, ran to change and came out in a full-body Catwoman suit. He could have had it with his Brazilian chick, and he did - according to the time frame he told me, which was the night I got back into town from Cinque Terre. Maybe he liked slumming (granted, I think better of myself than that, but...). There just seemed to be no justification and he never really communicated anything. Sure, I knew all about his ex-girlfriend and how she got crazy and belittled him while he was a stay-at-home dad/journalist to their newborn. About how another ex-girlfriend came to visit him in Spain while he was on vacation for 3 weeks and she had new tits. But then - and shame, shame on me - there was the doctor's bill (sitting on top of the recycled newspapers directly next to the trash so, no, I was not digging through the trash, thank you). He was billed for 2 weeks starting the Sunday after he got back into town from Spain, ie the day after we hooked up. But I saw him those 2 weeks. And I hadn't noticed any moles removed or new rhinoplasty. Maybe it was psychotherapy. But who sees patients on a Sunday?

Hence, my doubts. And my curiosities. And I never felt at ease. And this made it all the more pleasurable to date him. The unknown, the mystery, the slight degradation I felt. The grass being greener and not being let in on the secret of the fertilizer. He charmed me with always calling me "guapa" and ending notes with "besos" of different proportions (grande, fuerte). If I could sum him up, I'd say he was probably a true Playboy like we don't see much anymore. Living a minimalist lifestyle (5 suits, 5 pairs of work shoes and a shoehorn the length of his calf, no art hung on the walls, no clutter), always with a bottle of something (Red Label, Ballantine's, wine), dashing in a sweater and white pants, a bathroom with the bare essentials but of good quality, a fridge with nothing but applesauce and pesto and juice, a good drug now and then, taking the train to work, swimming in the lake during lunch hour, and romancing a handful of girls. A veritable James Bond, with that special, forgivable shrug when caught between two lovers.

And his SMS yesterday, "...que tal paris.. beso..."

Yes, he was a character for me.

For the end of the Bike Man, well, I didn't call him after Cinque Terre. Our last rendezvous was strange, as he paced maniacally in his kitchen telling me about the former Swiss light weight champion wielding a bike frame in defense of Bike Man with a chainsaw, defending himself from a love triangle mix-up. He looked out the window the whole time like he couldn't look at me, who was amused just watching him. And then, when I told him I had to go in a half-hour, he spanked me with a newly bought crop and jacked off over me and then came. Leaving me high and dry and racing home on my bike. His fetish just became too routine and unfulfilling.

So, on the drizzly morning I had to leave Geneva, I biked over to his shop, forgetting he didn't open up until 13h, left the book I borrowed (after reading about the child-murdering Gilles des Rais, I decided to pick up a hefty book about some woman solving the Jack the Ripper case - barely got through 10 pages), with a note wondering if he'd buy back my wonderful bike if the future flatmate didn't want it. I haven't heard from him about this at all. Not surprising.

And, now, I'm back in Paris and I have the Butcher emailing me and SMSing me about 4 times a day - even before I left Geneva. I sent an email asking him to be patient upon my return, that I'd need time to settle back in, unpack, shop, readjust, and just get back into things. And yet, still, I get detailed reports about how he's living. He's a sweet guy and he and I are closer than The Economist and I got to be so we have a different conversation between us. But, like every crazy person, I prefer to be left in mystery and wondering and hoping for attention than to be on a pedestal, awaited for like the Queen sailing into town. He leaves no room for mystery or intrigue.

Example:
Me, in Cinque Terre, day after arriving there, I sent an SMS to The Economist: "pienso en vos" (thinking of you / think of you)
He SMS back: ...viento caliente...lo mismo. (hot wind, the same)

I felt compelled for some reason to send the same to The Butcher: "thinking of you"
and I got back "Hi! :-) i bet you're having great time. I've been working on antic photos with my parents. Great time, great stories! Back to paris tomorrow. Gros bisous"

And I know that this just explains the two distinct relationships I had developed with them, but they are also very distinct. And, I preferred the former reply. I guess it's a bit romantic although I swear against romance. But more than that it's this heated mystery, desire, and simplicity in depth. Or, maybe creativity. I don't know, but I saved both SMS and read them again and wondered what the fuck.

So, now The Butcher is wondering when we see each other as if he has a zillion things going on tomorrow night between 19h and 22h and thus needs to plan when I'll be coming over. I know, it's exactly like me. I like to plan things. But when, on the Tuesday before I left, I went over to the Economist's to head to the bees to transfer honey and he forgot the second helmet for the motorcycle, I was like, no problem, let me know when you get back and we'll hang out. I wasn't pining for an hour on the dot, I had packing to do, and frankly, wasn't all that interested in getting all sticky with transferring honey from one bucket to a bunch of jars - and honestly, I'd guess he knew the same or couldn't foresee there being any work for two people and *left* the other helmet as such.

I guess I want a complicated medium, as most people do. To be desired, but not to be needed. To be appreciated but not required. To be enjoyed but not an addiction. I didn't get enough of that from the Economist and get too much from the Butcher. Sigh. Life is so good. I love complexity and all the varieties of emotion of life. I am lucky to feel them.

Well, Paris is still burning lights. The street is louder than Geneva. There is no noise curfew of 10pm. It smells of urine and freshly-baked bread. I have climbed the 101 stairs to my apartment twice yesterday and three times today. I need supplies for survival. I'm also at home on a Friday night unpacking. Listening to "Strangulation" and "Death is the Easy Way" by My Morning Jacket and moaning Turkish singers and wailing French voices, while trying to avoid the Gotan Project, which is added to all my iTunes playlists and which I will not be able to unassociate from the Economist for a long time.

Oh, and there are new photos up on Flickr relating to the Saturday night with the Economist and his friend. We went to a club exchangiste and had a grand ol' time. I'll write about it soon, I'm sure.

To the parents

Years ago, I swore that I'd get married and change my last name. I hated them that much. Years ago, I almost slapped my mother. Years ago, I cut initials into my left ankle to remind me of the hatred and pain my father caused.

Years go by...


Dear mum and dad email:

I was thinking about you guys today.

It's great to work downtown with the floor-to-ceiling windows because we get to see a lot. During the good weather there's some daycare group that trucks up the street to the capitol with all these cute lil kids tied to a string and 2 adults leading them up the hill. Today, I was walking past the cap as I noticed all these toddlers jumping around the cap lawn in lil hats and coats.

Kind of made me think of that story you told me, mum, about how, as a kid, I was late for school bus and you made me walk to school but called some lady ahead at a church or something to "accidentally" come out and see me and help me across the street.

Made me very heartfelt and appreciative of all you guys have done for me. Without even knowing it myself, you've made me who I am. I know that you're not perfect and that you did the best you could and that there were so many years of utter hatred. But seems that things worked out, huh? And the more work I've done on this project, learning about unplanned consequences and poverty and lack of education and love, the more I've really started to understand the parents' role.

I'll never concede to it out loud [and you'll burn this email upon receipt], but I'm also kinda turning into you in parts. My sister and I talked tonight about our trip to London/Paris together. She told me she packs the night before but it's not a big deal [maybe she's a liar?]. I told her I pack the night before and it's an ordeal and I over-pack. .. Kind of like mom, I guess. ; ) So, we reconciled that she'll pack what she wants but will have the leftover space for our new purchases, where I'll come equipped with everything in case we need a first aid kit or some such.

So many other weird things too. She bought her ticket for my flight but randomly chose the seat. Ends up she's 35G and I'm 35J. We'll be kicking Mr. 35H out of the way for sure. Turns out she asked her beau to help her do the research for a new digicam, dad. HA! So, I forwarded her the info you sent me and told her about the digicam I bought.

Bizarre daughters you created.

At one point, while debating whether to stay with the friends-of-friends I wrote to or to investigate hostels on our own, she and I agreed that we'd be better off on our own -- b/c it's easier for us to separate w/o hurt feelings or take our own time alone etc w/o involving other parties. Two peas in a pod. [We're divvying up your list of hostels to investigate more thoroughly, dad]

Yeah, I think the trip will be good for us. Maybe a bit weird at times b/c she'll always want to take care of me and I'll always want to be rebellious. But I bet we're more similar now than we were ever before. And maybe that will be difficult, maybe not. Either way...

If you ever thought about leaving a legacy... well, you have.

Guess I just wanted to tell you guys that you done good. I know you already know, but ... you know, I'm the sensitive one, the writerly one. I had to do it.


Okay..
Back to the research.

xoxo
L.

When in Rome, do as the Romans - when in Minneapolis, do what you want

[New to Cheating Death Once Again v.3? The beginning is a good place to start -- scroll all the way down darling.]


So, elections are over. I was out of the office that whole week and man did it feel fucking awesome.

James and I started our relationship two years ago as crazy fuckers, dating, playing, partying and somewhere after New Years I started to think seriously about trying to call it a "relationship" and talked to him about giving a relationship a good 'ol fashioned try. Well, now we know that I'm not relationship material and I mean "relationship" in the old fashioned sense. Or, maybe even the liberal sense. I started to grow tired and weary of nice, loving sex in the tender mornings after sleeping together. He started to love those moments. I was the one who started the relationship adament about not being monogamous and he's the one who ended up having the "open" part of it all. Different strokes for different folks, I guess. We're still friends and work-out partners. Well, actually, he's been patient and kind enough to mentor me through working out still so my ass doesn't get too flabby. Although, for some reason he keeps telling me to stay home and eat twinkies. Huh. Tomorrow's our 2nd year anniversary and I'd like to say we're doing something together but he's in Milwaukee - no doubt playing with some sweet girl who had no idea what she was getting herself into but totally enjoying it all the same. And, I'm on hour 12 of applications, financial aid research, minor breaks for Mad TV, and a few coctails. Tomorrow I believe I'll continue the work. And I guess that's just the perfect way to celebrate our non-relationship relationship.

Regardless of what is or isn't between us, it didn't stop us from going out Saturday night after the elections. He picked me up and we had sushi. I was pretty sure that there wasn't chemistry any longer but we went over to the pool hall for some games anyway. And, I was still pretty sure that there wasn't chemistry and - in normal, blunt Lola fashion that I thank the bejesus that James doesn't just walk out on me every time - I brought it up. He was kind of pussyfooting around us, around me, around the pool table and I was rather getting fed up with it. I mean, I guess I'd been ballsy of late and rather in control of my own self and making the decisions. He'd been reacting to my decisions and trying not to just explode at me and walk out, keeping it together, keeping it a bit distant. So, I grabbed him by the shirt collar, pulled him to me, and leaned in to make out. We even stumbled back a bit and I think I pushed my tongue into his mouth. There! That's passion. That's what I'd wanted. That's what I was missing.

When we got back to my place we were both a bit snockered. We sat on the carpet and I poured myself another drink. "Where's your mojo?" That was easy for drunk Lola to say, hard for James to hear. But I guess that's what it boiled down to in my mind. Where was the spunk, the heat, the crazed and overpowering lust and domination, the brutality, the control, the degredation?

PDH once explained, "The paradox, I find, as a dom myself is that the closer I get to someone, the harder it is to dom them. It's easy to humiliate and discipline a stranger in a way. Different when you wake up next to them in the morning and make them toast. If you see what I mean. The trade off is that of course, you get to love. And love and companionship aren't a trivial thing. I don't presume to know what you need/want, just I hope it works out for you."

Well, James did not take kindly to me asking where his mojo went, but he swallowed it with pride and courage. And, then took it out on me as I took it out of him. On the bed, trying to tie me up, I was not a limp, compliant Lola. I tossed and turned, kneed and scratched, I twisted and turned, wrastled and wrestled. And he kept me on the bed and forced me into exhaustion and acceptance.

In the morning we both felt better. My muscles ached. I remembered how good it felt to be overpowered by him. And, I think he was able to wake his mojo again.

The next weekend I went to Minneapolis for a conference. Drove up there Thursday with the interns and thought I was going to shoot myself but it ended up being a nice 4 hour drive of fun conversation and jokes. After dinner with all the conference kids, I went back to my room, ordered up a beer, and hooked in the laptop. I guess I've had a resurgance of courage and risk. I decided to un-divorce my sister and told her I was in town and thought she might want to come to dinner with all of us on Saturday night. I was emailing our pal Hex and he reminded me that our pal Clichemonster was living in the cities still. So I dropped him an email to see if he'd be around over the weekend and would he want to meet up quickly. Then, I decided to drop an email to a colleague to see if he was in town, too. Said colleague was, indeed, at the conference and wondered if we could meet for dinner on Friday. He and I had hooked up a few times before although many of the dates ended without any sexual interaction because I was too drunk and suddenly overcome by a feeling of guilt or complication over a current lover. But, now I was free and feeling a bit over-sexed and under-touched. All day Friday, work was replaced by flirtations, accidental eye stares, panty wetting feelings, and trying to hide the unethical tryst. First of all, he's my superior (in a way), a high level CFO of another state's Dem Party, the chair of the CFO affinity group, and a pal to our CFO. Secondly, he's married although technically separated although sleeping on the couch at their place "for the sake of the kids." I'm a whore. I know I am. I know it.

Clichemonster and I decided to meet at 5pm in the hotel lobby. It was so nice to meet him in person, and it really felt very relaxed and comfortable. He had the wrong hotel and actually ran over while we texted descriptions, blocks, and hellos. It was a really quick intro and a brief hug. Granted, I only had 15 minutes to hang out with him between end of conference for the day and the reception. But he thought he'd be available to come meet us out Saturday night. I wasn't quite sure what I was getting myself into - either with this guy who I only knew from the virtual world, or inviting my sister, this guy, and trying to get laid. It felt nice to be a bit overwhelmed and I had this weird energy from god knows where. Like, I could have gone all night had I not had a presentation on Saturday morning. I could have juggled 3 more friends and guys, coulda done coke and smoked all night, coulda spent $500 in a strip club, coulda swaggered in the next morning and bombed the workshop but held my head high in experience. Needless to say, some of that happened, but not all. And I was a good lil' presentater.

I joined my co-workers at a nice 5:30pm reception and ended up wining a case of beer. Fuck, that's right. I won a case of beer. I shouldn't be buying more gin and tonic! Seriously though, I don't drink beer. You want some of my beer? Right, so I won a trivia quiz and got a case of beer. Oddly enough, I had stepped out for a smoke with the tryst man when they called my name. We planned to head out in half-hour for dinner away from the downtown area. It wasn't easy trying to sneak away from co-workers and interns, but I was able to and cabbed it over to the old Loring Cafe which is now Cafe Lurcat. The conversation was work-based because I wasn't sure what to say or how to say it so instead, I probbed and got all the juicey insider scoop we all dream of getting from the boss's boss who has the eagle eye view. It was a fucking fabulous meal and I recommend it to anyone who's on a special-occassion date. I had 2 glasses of white wine, 3 raw oysters on the half shell with mignonette, horseradish and lemon ($3.25ea), and the seared ahi with lemon confit and ponzu ($24.5). I wasn't really paying attention to what Mister Mister had.

After our meal we went outside to share a smoke and I apologized for my previous behavior. I feel like I've been apologizing a lot lately. Even right now, home alone on a Saturday night when I could be getting totally wasted I'm still sipping slowly and not crossing into a wild brink. Even with James on the wicked night of wrestling I didn't feel quite over the drunken edge, although I know was teetering and don't remember all the details. But I apologized to Mister Mister for forgetting a lot of our interactions, conversations, reasons why, and how it happened. He very nicely reminded me of some of the details and forgave some of my idiotic actions.

The bathrooms at the Cafe shared common space sinks and at one point we found each other there and started making out. His hand was starting a rough grope when someone walked in and joked that we get a room. So Mister Mister paid the tab and cabbed us back, asking the cabbie to drop us off a block away. Not too uncommon I'd suppose, but I still felt rather immature. I let him go ahead and waited as he texted me his room number.

Our make-up make-out was rather giggly and rough. After taking off my pants, he instantly rolled me over and proceeded to slap my belt across my ass. Definitely not quite measuring his strength or direction. My ass was stinging and I told him to stop - 1) I'm not a pain slut, 2) I asked if he'd tried this out on his own ass lately. I find it's really not easy being the most experienced, dirty minded sub in the room. This means that others end up tapping into a very nether region of their loins and brains. It means they get carried away and think they have some innate power and strength and command, and they think they can -finally!- do whatever it is they've dreamed of doing or experimented once and want to try again. I'm not an idiot either, nor am I naive, and I hope James never reads this because I know he'll feel protective and maybe even a bit self-defeatist thinking he could have protected me. But I am my own woman and I know how to handle situations. Mister Mister just got a little rough is all, a bit more rough than I was planning. And while his cock isn't nearly James's or (R)Andy's size, it was long enough to make me gag. And he liked that too much and held me there for too long sometimes. I didn't end up tossing the lovely oysters but I did end up pushing back a lot more than I like.

There was sex. Lots of sex. Front and flipped over and on the side sex. And I can now tell between a practiced man and a man needing practice. Or, maybe it's just plain ol' hard to live up to the best -- once you go black you never go back? Well, I've had delicious oysters and it's just hard to be satisfied with guppies. We did roll and laugh and kiss and he told me about his fancy small ipod. I did have to be in bed though. Beauty rest and all...

Don't mind the spelling mistakes, they're not due to drunkenness but to laptop typing - to which I am not accostumed. To James: "I couldn't wait.And Idon't want to tell you about it b/c I don'tw ant to know about your adventures. (I hate typing on laptops Ialways miss the space bar) I hooked up here w an previous lover and I don't knowthat I want to tell you about it.

On theother note, I got to meet Clichemonster in personwhich was cool. He's nice. We only chatted for 5 minutes but I wholly support bloggers meeting in person.

Istill love you and want to be your tying subject and want to hang out but it might get more complicated. Idon'twant to hurt you or make things dramatic or hard and Iknowthey are."

To Lola:

"pretty buzzed.

I just read for the first time that you fucked some guy when I wasn't around. then I called you real quick. sorry to wake you up, but I thought you might be chatty. It's only 12:30 at night. ......

I was absolutely fucking certain that you'd sleep with someone, if nothing else than to further break the bond between us. I know you need separation, and you are going to create it. I understand. It's fine. I'm doing the same thing. The only difference is you caused it and I'm reacting to it, but it all works out the same. We are creating a chasm of sorts between us. We aren't bf and gf, but we can still be lovers perhaps and friends for certain.

you don't have to tell me about your experience with said previous lover if you don't want to, sweetie. although, I'd be curious why you need to hide, and I'm sort of curious if it was kinky or just vanillas.

if you still love me and want to be my tying subject, I'm curious what might get more complicated...
You are not making things harder, or more dramatic, and I mean it. You couldn't possibly be any worse than I am, for god's sake. Just don't fuck any of my really close friends, and we'll be just fine. that's all I ask of you, please.

I won't tell you any more about what my adventures, until I understand where you are coming from.

I still want to know. When do you bleed?
tell me. it helps me understand your mindset, dammit.
I might talk to you tomorrow, but I am rather busy. You have fun, don't worry about me.

dont worry.

fuck

like

a

slut

I love you"

He does know me well. Saturday's to come.....