Tuesday, February 03, 2004
The next step
It's finally there, this "arrangement" with Dale. Who am I kidding. It stopped being an arrangement weeks ago. It's now a relationship, and officially so. Yesterday, he said those three dreaded words, "I love you," over the phone. He was saying bye and he muttered something. It was only after I put the receiver down that I realized what he had said.
Oh, but did my chinky eyes grow wide as wide can get. I grabbed my mobile phone and sent him back those words.
Now what?
There are times when he's at a loss for words. And that's not like Dale. He always knows what to say and how to say it and when. He's the take-charge guy. So when he seems to be grasping for words, it surprises me. But that's when I love him the most.
That silly little tart
When Charles invited me to a threesome with his girlfriend, he said that he was sure I'd find her sexy. I knew then that I shouldn't go. And yet, I did. I never listen to myself.
When I got there, she was still in the bedroom. She wasn't in the living room ready to welcome me to the place. That was one. When she came out, she didn't look inviting. That was two. When Charles couldn't sustain a hard-on with me, she started that silly teasing game with him, calling his dick her magic wand and fondling it, and saying that it needed a bit of magic potion. That was the third.
Three too many.
I was the first woman Charles met when he came in last year. I was with him twice and he didn't have any difficulty sustaining a hard-on then. Now that he has this silly little tart with him, his dick can't even get up to say hi to me.
I hate being compared to others. I hate being forced into this mold where I don't fit nohow. Contrariwise, I am unique and no mold can hold me. I broke that mold when I was born.
That tart was petite, with a well-proportioned body. Small perky breasts. Not exactly a beauty but she has clear skin. Her eyes are too small for her face which makes her cheekbones look too wide. She has a furtive look about her, expecially around the eyes. She's a tart and men like tarts like her, the giggly, shallow kind. And she was 37.
And she liked the fact that Charles prefered her to me.
Men like Charles. Dickheads. And I mean that in a most derogatory sense.
The next day, I was crying over the phone, telling a story of a date (Charles) who ran off with another man's date (Pia). I couldn't tell Dale the truth. Although there were no promises made, I didn't want to hurt his feelings. No matter how matter-of-fact you take this kind of relationship, there are always feelings involved. He didn't get panicked by the tears and the soft sobs, the broken voice. I appreciated that.
I suppose I should feel flattered, really, that that silly little tart felt so insecure of me, so threatened, that she was so happy that her sumbitch dickhead boyfriend didn't find me attractive. I suppose I should feel flattered that my intellect intimidated her, and the fact that I work for some of the most respected brilliant lawyers in our time was just too much for her. Now it makes sense that she relished the fact that she knew more about the men common in our lives, like Alex/Felix, Peter and Bond, than I do.
Yet, I take rejection from these people to heart. Amazing. And I'm supposedly an intelligent woman.
Admittedly, I crave for approval. I grew up with my folks teasing me about my weight. I can't remember my parents ever praising me for being pretty or lovely or anything remotely close to praise for aesthetic appearance. I had always been held up to people by my family as an intellectual.
Right.
So now I crave for approval. I want Mara's Frenchie because he's young and virile and, well, not really good-looking but very appealing. I want Alex/Felix because he's mature and strong and in charge. I want each and every dickhead that I've ever had to yearn for me and desire me with every fiber of his body, every drop of semen.
Fuck them all to hell.
Mara's going to lose her Frenchie this year, as he's going back home. I'm going to have my Brit forever, as this is his home. Not one of them can hold a candle to my Dale. He's not young and virile, but he's his own man, in charge of everything, in control of his fate. And he's not just a small-time entrepreneur or a foreign consultant on anything, either. He's the CEO of one of the largest manufacturing companies in the country, earning millions in US dollars.
And he's mine.
So this is what it feels like to love. It's not like being in love, no. I remember that. Young, juvenile, silly, with love songs going on and on in my head. No, this time, it's not like that. It's the morning sunshine, and the wind in my hair, the ring of a phone and the voice that calls you home. It's the cool dark of night, and the sounds of a faraway world, and dreams of life and living, and love and loving. It's the strength to go on despite the knowing that someday, there will be a goodbye. It's the hope of forever and second chances.
Finally, I love.
Oh, but did my chinky eyes grow wide as wide can get. I grabbed my mobile phone and sent him back those words.
Now what?
There are times when he's at a loss for words. And that's not like Dale. He always knows what to say and how to say it and when. He's the take-charge guy. So when he seems to be grasping for words, it surprises me. But that's when I love him the most.
That silly little tart
When Charles invited me to a threesome with his girlfriend, he said that he was sure I'd find her sexy. I knew then that I shouldn't go. And yet, I did. I never listen to myself.
When I got there, she was still in the bedroom. She wasn't in the living room ready to welcome me to the place. That was one. When she came out, she didn't look inviting. That was two. When Charles couldn't sustain a hard-on with me, she started that silly teasing game with him, calling his dick her magic wand and fondling it, and saying that it needed a bit of magic potion. That was the third.
Three too many.
I was the first woman Charles met when he came in last year. I was with him twice and he didn't have any difficulty sustaining a hard-on then. Now that he has this silly little tart with him, his dick can't even get up to say hi to me.
I hate being compared to others. I hate being forced into this mold where I don't fit nohow. Contrariwise, I am unique and no mold can hold me. I broke that mold when I was born.
That tart was petite, with a well-proportioned body. Small perky breasts. Not exactly a beauty but she has clear skin. Her eyes are too small for her face which makes her cheekbones look too wide. She has a furtive look about her, expecially around the eyes. She's a tart and men like tarts like her, the giggly, shallow kind. And she was 37.
And she liked the fact that Charles prefered her to me.
Men like Charles. Dickheads. And I mean that in a most derogatory sense.
The next day, I was crying over the phone, telling a story of a date (Charles) who ran off with another man's date (Pia). I couldn't tell Dale the truth. Although there were no promises made, I didn't want to hurt his feelings. No matter how matter-of-fact you take this kind of relationship, there are always feelings involved. He didn't get panicked by the tears and the soft sobs, the broken voice. I appreciated that.
I suppose I should feel flattered, really, that that silly little tart felt so insecure of me, so threatened, that she was so happy that her sumbitch dickhead boyfriend didn't find me attractive. I suppose I should feel flattered that my intellect intimidated her, and the fact that I work for some of the most respected brilliant lawyers in our time was just too much for her. Now it makes sense that she relished the fact that she knew more about the men common in our lives, like Alex/Felix, Peter and Bond, than I do.
Yet, I take rejection from these people to heart. Amazing. And I'm supposedly an intelligent woman.
Admittedly, I crave for approval. I grew up with my folks teasing me about my weight. I can't remember my parents ever praising me for being pretty or lovely or anything remotely close to praise for aesthetic appearance. I had always been held up to people by my family as an intellectual.
Right.
So now I crave for approval. I want Mara's Frenchie because he's young and virile and, well, not really good-looking but very appealing. I want Alex/Felix because he's mature and strong and in charge. I want each and every dickhead that I've ever had to yearn for me and desire me with every fiber of his body, every drop of semen.
Fuck them all to hell.
Mara's going to lose her Frenchie this year, as he's going back home. I'm going to have my Brit forever, as this is his home. Not one of them can hold a candle to my Dale. He's not young and virile, but he's his own man, in charge of everything, in control of his fate. And he's not just a small-time entrepreneur or a foreign consultant on anything, either. He's the CEO of one of the largest manufacturing companies in the country, earning millions in US dollars.
And he's mine.
So this is what it feels like to love. It's not like being in love, no. I remember that. Young, juvenile, silly, with love songs going on and on in my head. No, this time, it's not like that. It's the morning sunshine, and the wind in my hair, the ring of a phone and the voice that calls you home. It's the cool dark of night, and the sounds of a faraway world, and dreams of life and living, and love and loving. It's the strength to go on despite the knowing that someday, there will be a goodbye. It's the hope of forever and second chances.
Finally, I love.
