Thursday, May 17, 2007
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Mark’s kids were over tonight.
I really don’t enjoy children; I tend to think of them as miniature embodiments of everything that I don’t want out of life. They represent the minimization of self and the forced maturation that comes with society’s version of adulthood. I, of course, have my own thoughts on growing up – mainly that I have earned the right to do what I please, not stay home and change somebody’s diaper and wipe strained peas off a messy chin. Even if I stood to inherit an Anna Nicole caliber fortune, I can’t see myself doing the diaper thing. And I’m not real big on peas, either.
Mark’s older daughter is not bad, for a nine-year-old. She is rather sweet in a drama-queen princess way. She really does like a lot of the things that I do, and we can discuss topics like shopping and gossip without the glazed eyes of many of her contemporaries. I let her take more liberties than I probably should, like running around the house in my expensive heels, carrying my Pradas when we go out to lunch, and getting a new outfit or accessory now and again.
I admit, half the time I do these things because I feel bad for her. She lives with her mother, her mother’s new husband, Mark’s younger daughter and her mom and step dad’s new baby. Her mother is rather unsophisticated – she is often unkempt and looks like her wardrobe has not been updated since some time in the late 1990s (but her NASCAR tee shirts are new, I guess.) Her step dad is a slob of the highest order. Mark’s younger daughter is an absolute brat, and the baby is fussy and probably on the brat path himself. They live in a dumpy house in the most lowbrow neighborhood of the most white-trash town for miles. This is the type of town where anybody who doesn’t leave after high school finds themselves living in a trailer full of badly dressed kids, blowing their disability checks at the Moose lodge every month. The poor kid won’t have a chance without Mark’s and my influence.
She goes to a small, private Catholic school. Her mother, I’m convinced, intends to send her there straight through high school to combat what she perceives as Mark’s ungodly influence. Mark shares my attitudes on many things esoteric; funny how his ex-wife used to e-mail me, his girlfriend, when she was looking for tricks of Tantra and Laya Yoga to keep him around. Her hypocrisy is stupefying.
His daughter is treated very well, by comparison, when she is at our house. Mark always lets her use his laptop, because the one they have at her house is frequently either occupied or broken. She is always encouraged to do things other than watch TV. She spends her time here listening to different kinds of music (no more fuckin’ Shanaya or Carrie Underwood – redneck does not look good on a woman! Classical, metal, techno, hip hop – those are fine), drawing, painting, playing in the yard, learning to play cards, learning to cook simple things, learning to enjoy food not from a box or a can, improving her table manners, shopping, learning about finances and generally encompassing new experiences all around.
She is developing a love for couture, and learning the lessons about budgeting, getting a good price and spotting fakes that come along with it. She’s learning important lessons about buying classic wardrobe pieces from outlets and discount stores while accenting with current-season department store pieces to keep with the times on a budget. She is learning about supplementing one’s Design Within Reach (yeah, right) purchases with reclaimed flea-market finds, and how to put it all together to make a really beautiful house, instead of the overstuffed-recliner-meets-cheap-Queen-Anne-repro stuff she’s used to.
She’s learning about living, embracing pleasure, seizing the days she has on this earth, and she’s coming to disbelieve all that hellfire and brimstone bullshit on an intellectual level. In a word, she’s growing.
But it is a slow process. Sometimes it’s hard for her to understand that when she looks over my shoulder while I’m balancing my checkbook on the computer and sees money present, that does not always mean she’s going to be treated. Sometimes it’s hard for me to understand why she doesn’t always get what came so easily to me, but then I realize that I’m battling the negative imprinting she’s experiencing the other five days of the week.
Mark thinks some day she will want to come and live with us. If I’m still with Mark when that happens, I will be OK with that.
But I’m still nobody’s babysitter.
I have recently been informed that Mark and I are invited to his cousin’s wedding in Boston. It is coming up rather quickly in mid June, and I have heard from various members of his family that it will no doubt be a totally swank affair. Mark is somewhat bewildered by the prospect of monkey suits and fancy hotels and dancing in front of his extended family without falling on his face, but I am absolutely excited. I can pull off swank. I can pull off glam. I know which fork to use and when. I am always aware of which direction my pinkies are pointing. No problem.
Of course, part of my excitement stems from a newfound justification for a shopping spree. I love to shop. When I find myself with extra money or a special occasion for which I must dress, I can’t stay away from the local shopping mall. Of course it doesn’t help that I live about five minutes away. My closet is well stocked, but I just don’t have anything new enough. I know intellectually that it doesn’t matter, as most of these people have never met me and have absolutely no grounds to say “didn’t she wear that dress to the last party?” But I know. So therefore I will shop.
I have been scouring the internets for the past week or so, looking for just the perfect combination of dress, shoes and bag. The hard part is that I’ve also been trying to keep the whole endeavor under $1500.
The worst of it is over, really, as I have found the cutest darn evening bag ever for just over $100. Usually bags are my downfall, the bane of my checkbook, the item on which I spend the most for any given outfit. But not this time. I chose a satin Coach convertible mini bag with rhinestones on the buckle. It’s not an expensive bag to begin with, and I got a really good deal on eBay. My only worry is that I will go all out on the rest of the outfit then decide I don’t like how the less-expensive bag looks with the dress and shoes, and find myself having a vintage Gucci quilted satin chain bag FedExed the week of the wedding.
This is my life. I’m really never satisfied, you know.
The next most important thing is the shoes. At least for me, dresses are easy. I can find a dozen dresses per store that look good, dresses that have the ability to flatter and command attention when I enter a room. Where most people match the shoes to the dress, my usual plan of attack is to get the shoes first and find the dress to match them.
I think I have found the perfect shoes. They are Louboutin Prive peep-toe sling-backs, which are pretty standard as Louboutins go. But the best part about them, the thing that totally makes me drool over them, is the cool black glitter with which they are covered. They are fun and formal all at once, which is what I want.
If I wanted pure sophistication, I would just throw on my 120mm satin Decolletes (which match the bag I just bought perfectly, by the way). I wear the Decolletes to power meetings at work – they are much more of a simple and refined style. But I think I really need the fun element to come across, as I don’t plan on hiding all the colorful tattoos on my back and shoulders. This is not a production planning conference, this is a party, damn it! My personality and individuality must shine through, as I’m sure I won’t even get to talk to 90% of the people there, though they will all sit and quietly judge me.
The peep-toe Prives are by rights a very versatile style, but I’m sort of thinking that the ideal dress for the evening will be flirty a-line with a plunging back. This will tap into the retro potential of the shoes . . . and cause me to think longingly of a vintage Gucci bag even more than I already am.
I still have time to fall in love with the Coach I have, though.
And I still have time for dress shopping.
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
I’ve written before about my background with Sam, but there is always more to tell. Though there has been palpable sexual tension between us for quite some time, I will never forget the first time we hooked up.
Sam is in a band. They usually play local shows, but occasionally they travel to other cities in other states. Back in January, they played a show in a bar about 2 hours drive from where we live. My best friend Adam and I decided to go check it out; although it was a long drive, it was certainly more exciting than a boring Friday around here. I had wanted Mark to go too, but he ended up having to work late.
In the back of my mind I wanted to hook up with Sam, but I did almost everything I could think of to jeopardize my chances - which is to say, I took advantage of a half-day at work to get my roots dyed, wax everything off and buy a whole new outfit down to the underwear. Usually I don’t have that type of luck when I look my best. Usually choice hookups fall into my lap when I haven’t shaved, have migrating eyeliner, and go out not dressed to run into anybody. It seems like the more I prepare for the situation, the less likely it is to happen. I can’t explain this phenomenon, but I am well used to it.
So there I was, dressed in awesome-fitting jeans, a black lacy top that showed everything off just right, my favorite knee-high black leather boots with the four inch heels and velvet laces all the way up the front, and my velvet mini jacket to match. With my penchant for too-much eyeliner and my long black hair, I looked the part of a goth princess, albeit one going out for a night of live music, rather than to a Halloween costume party. I looked good and I knew it, which may explain why things happened the way they did – my confidence triumphed over the curse of over-preparation.
Adam and I made the long drive up to the bar. I let him drive, though we took my car. When we arrived, we met up with Sam and some of the other members of his band hanging outside in the parking lot smoking cigarettes and drinking Jagermeister straight from the bottle. Sam greeted me with a surprised look and a big hug. I think he assumed Mark would be there and wasn’t expecting me to show up with just Adam.
As the night was unseasonably warm – I barely needed my light jacket – we stood outside and talked and drank for a while before the bands started. Sam insisted on giving me a little baggie of coke (on the sly, as Adam doesn’t mess with that stuff), some really nice Jagermeister shot glasses that he had originally bought for himself but had left in his trunk, and free tickets to the show. He seemed really happy to see us, but I didn’t think much of it at the time. When he talked about how he had gotten a hotel room for the night, including giving us directions to it, I didn’t think much of that either. He even mentioned that he had left his triple-a card at the front desk of the hotel in case we wanted to crash there for the night. I told him that wasn’t necessary, as I wasn’t planning to drink all that much and Mark wouldn’t really like that idea. Looking back I think I must have been in one of my infinitely dense moods. But I digress.
Adam, Sam and I drank Jagerbombs in tall glasses while we listened to the first two bands. Though Sam had to spend time with his band and the other people he knew there, he made sure to keep coming back to hang out with Adam and me. I thought that was really nice of him. All night, whenever Sam would leave, Adam insisted that he could see how much he liked me. I kept waving it off. Sam is incredibly hard to read sometimes.
By the time Sam and his band were about to go on, it had begun to rain rather steadily. Leaving Adam inside, I went outside with Sam and we spent a cigarette break (he smokes, I don’t) under the underpass across the parking lot. We were talking and laughing and joking and he was standing very close. It was then that the devious little gears in my brain began to work. He still insisted we shouldn’t drive home if we were to continue drinking. I really didn’t want to go, either, as we were having a really good time. I didn’t go so far as to surmise that we would hook up, but I just didn’t want the evening to end.
I called Mark and he didn’t answer his phone, so I left him a message that said it was pouring. I told him that I would be home, but we weren’t going to leave here until the rain slowed down a bit. Mark knows I hate driving in the rain at night because of a minor case of astigmatism, so the scene was officially set. I didn’t promise Sam anything, but I said I would think about staying.
After the show was over, the three of us sat around drinking until they threw us out of the bar. Adam and Sam both convinced me that we should stay the night. So we followed Sam to his hotel and Adam and I checked into a room with two beds. But we did not stay there, we adjourned directly to Sam’s room. Nobody was tired yet, though it was almost 2 AM.
As we drank Jager over ice and blew copious lines, Sam led the conversation into deeper territory than previously. We ended up within a bizarre game of truth or dare, which was much more truth than dare. We all revealed things about ourselves that we don't normally divulge. We spoke of religion - I have none, Adam has very little, but Sam is a Christian to the core with a belief in creationism and eternal damnation. I never would have thought so, because he and I see eye to eye on so many things. When we spoke of our ideas and beliefs, we met at many more points than I have with anyone else who follows any second-aeon religion. I guess that is because he has his own intellectual basis for believing what he does; he is not like the other sheep who believe what they are told.
Sam is a bit of a voyeur - he insisted that I kiss Adam, though Adam and I don't ever roll that way, just so he could watch. Then Adam, forever the faithful wingman, insisted that Sam kiss me. Sam said that he couldn't because he never cheats on his wife. That, plus the alcohol and the coke, was enough to challenge me. So I reasoned that I had kissed Adam, so Sam should kiss Adam too. Adam, who has never expressed a gay thought or inclination for as long as I have known him, did not flinch when Sam moved in for his kiss.
Little did either of them know how much that shit turned me on.
Sam said something sweet about kissing me by proxy, via Adam, and I told him that it just wasn't the same. He asked me why I wanted to kiss him and I answered that he intrigued me. He wondered why and I said that he always had, I said that he was different than most people. He said how he loved my eyes, and loved my lips and then approached me. While bracing himself on the arms of the chair in which I sat, he leaned in toward my mouth ever so slowly. It felt like decades before his lips met mine, but the softness of his kiss made it all well worth the wait. As he retreated to his seat on the corner of the bed, he had one of those devious looks I would come to know and love.
"You're not so dominant," he said. I was coming to recognize that was the kind of game he liked to play - a battle of wills. That was one of my favorite games, too, but I seldom met anyone who was truly any good at it.
"You kissed me when you said you wouldn't," I retorted. I did not reveal that it is always my M.O. to make them think it was their idea, no matter what happens. I was not quite ready to tip my hand to that extent.
The conversation continued for a bit longer, until Sam said that he should probably walk us back to our room. Adam was getting sleepy, but I was still wide awake from the coke and the excitement. We made the trek back to our room, and Adam barely made it to his bed before passing out.
"Good night," I said to Sam, all the while wanting him to ask me to come back to his room.
"Unless you're not tired."
"I might be."
"Ok, tough girl, I'll see you in the morning." He wasn't going to give in, he knew exactly what I was playing at.
I knew what I had to do. I had to give in just a little, express desire instead of playing my usual cool. As much as it pained me to relinquish the upper hand, I said "I'm not that tired, if you're not."
"So come on, let's let Adam get some sleep."
The walk back down the mile-long hallway to his room seemed to take a fraction of a second. All of a sudden we were inside. I tried to flip the lights off, but the voyeur in him wouldn't let me. We kissed passionately and deeply, and made our way to the bed. I took the more dominant physical role, guiding our actions, undressing him first, undoing his zipper, flipping my tongue over every inch of him. He was in control mentally, though, as he kept guiding us into conversations about life and ideas, intermittently dispersed with bouts of physical contact. Though we were together for hours, our time seemed more like a long conversation than a fucking session. He elicited more from me than I usually gave. Again he insisted that I wasn't so dominant. He erased all my reservations with regards to him seeing my imperfect form, and won me over on a purely mental level.
After all was done, after we had caught a few hours sleep and were set to depart for home, I left him with the comment that "That was the least mundane evening I've ever spent." I have been so used to sex without intimacy for so long that what happened between us was absolutely incredible and different and unusual. He is very special indeed to make someone like me feel that sex is new again.
Now you know why he is my favorite crush.
One of the last times I went to the flea market (don’t laugh, I’ve found some great stuff at flea markets), I think I did a terrible thing. We – Mark, Adam and I – were at the large open-air one up the hill, and were about halfway through walking the aisles when I spotted something at once so hilarious and so horrifying that I could not hold my tongue.
Upon a table, amidst the various trinkets and baubles one would expect to consort with the vast expanses of cast off trifles, there sat a Louis Fauxton of such magnitude that I had to approach it; like a rubbernecker at an accident scene, I could not look away.
The woman at the booth saw me approach and must have mistook my look of amused amazement for one of desire, for she stated that she could sell it for $50, although the tag said $75. I raised one eyebrow and said to her “You know it’s fake, right?” I admit, that was probably not the nicest or most tactful thing I could say, but I just couldn’t help but address such a flagrant violation of couture.
She said to me “No, it’s not. I bought it at an auction.”
To which I said “Yes, it is” and then proceeded to tell her why.
I am a Prada girl at heart, but I have really no trouble spotting fakes of all genres. I actually find anything with a pattern, such as the monogram Coach and Louis Vuitton, to be the easiest fakes to spot because there is so much that can go wrong. For instance, on this bag, which was feigning the cherry blossom pattern of seasons past, the monograms weren’t even from one edge of the bag to the other and the faces on the blossoms were totally wrong looking. This specimen also had subtler issues with the hardware and the pleather trim.
She looked absolutely dejected. I could not tell whether she was upset for being found out, or was upset that she herself had been had. Either way, she knew I was right. She said, “I can let it go for $10.”
Of course I didn’t buy it. Even if it was a good fake, I wouldn’t have bought it. I have a small, but really nice collection of bags, and a fake like that would be an insult to my closet. Even if I was able to fool 9 out of 10 people who saw it, I would never be able to fool myself. I would always feel just a little ashamed for carrying such a bag.
At this very same flea market two weeks later, I saw a “Coach” mini bag with a very crooked logo pattern and obvious gaps in the rings holding the straps to the bag. I also saw a “Prada” tote in a style that was never made, with flagrantly absent pins in the triangle logo. These were not fooling anybody. The lady at the booth knew it, too, because she glared at me when I pointed out the difference to Adam’s sister Allison, who we were shopping with, even going so far to point out the difference in the stitching between the Prada I was carrying and the sad charlatan on the table.
I just don’t understand the mentality of carrying fakes. Now, there is nothing wrong with carrying a less expensive bag from an average department store which borrows design features from the current hot styles; I would never look down upon somebody who carried those types of bags or upon their reasons for doing so. But it is a different thing entirely to take a cheaply made bag, plaster it with designer logos and then try to pass it off as authentic. That kind of behavior speaks to a disturbing superficiality that I just cannot abide, and belies a sickening type of desperation.
Are there really women out there who care so much about what others think that it outweighs their shame over knowing that they are living a couture-appurtenance lie? I’m sorry to say that there are, and they are everywhere – at the bar, at the mall, walking down the street, even at my own workplace.
Do not think that I don’t understand the pressure to present a polished appearance - my budget and I struggle with it every day. I spend a ridiculous amount of money on clothing and accessories. My boss even makes fun of me for carrying an $1100 Prada when I should be saving for retirement or whatever it is that a responsible adult does with money. But with certain things, I always have to have the best – the most supple and ambrosial bags, the most opulent 120mm Louboutin Pigalles, the purest coke, the smoothest cognac the hottest men (and women) and everything else in between. Some things just aren’t worth doing if not done right. And sure, I may spend quite a bit on things that others find to be extravagant . . .
But it is still much cheaper than therapy.
The other night I had the rare opportunity to hook up with some old friends. My friend Sawyer, who moved last fall, was up visiting for a few days. We thought it would be good get the old crew back together for a while before he had to make the four-hour drive back to the woods he now calls home.
I haven't seen Sawyer or Dean since right before Sawyer moved. Before that, I hadn't seen them in nearly 6 years. The reasons for this are many-fold; I will try to explain as best that I can.
Dean and I used to date, way back when. We lived together for 2 and a half years, were quasi-engaged, and had a really nasty break up - full of sound and fury - way back in the end of 2000 and beginning of 2001. I had seen him once or twice since then, and we've e-mailed sporadically, but really never put any effort into trying to re-connect as civilized adults. However, he does always have a way of finding me. I won't say that it's hard, considering that I haven't moved in almost 6 years, had the same cell-phone number for 7 years, and the same e-mail address for nearly 10 years. I'm not exactly a mystery. He ended up finding me through my MySpace page this last time. Through his MySpace, I was able to re-connect with Sawyer, Carl and Matt, the rest of the crew.
We caught up with each others' lives through long e-mail conversations. All the immaturities of the past seemed to have fallen away - we had all done quite a bit of growing up in the time since we had spoken last.
Dean especially seemed to have matured. It was not really possible to hold a grudge. Even though I had always felt that blame for the end of us rested squarely on his shoulders, neither of us was the same person we had been. I could no longer blame him for the mistakes he had made; I was so far removed from the situation that I felt like an outside observer watching a movie, a work of historical fiction, whenever I thought about our past. I did not want him back, in fact I wanted nothing from him other than to know that things were fine between us. He felt the same. Now when we speak of both having made mistakes, we mean it. That phrase has ceased to be just something one says, it has slipped easily into the realm of truth through the passage of time.
Sawyer and I were able to meet on the intellectual level we had always shared. We had a bit of a falling out near the end, but those were volatile times for all of us. No respect was truly lost, it was just petty bullshit taken too far. Surprisingly, Sawyer was instrumental in engineering the first meeting.
Matt and Carl did not attend our first outing, though we did try to include them. Carl has his reasons, most of which stem from depression and a crazy work schedule that includes most evenings and weekends. Matt, however, skipped it because of me.
Matt and I have a bit of a past. He admits that he always wanted to date me, almost from the first time we met. I was dating and living with Dean at the time. Dean, Carl and I met Matt and Sawyer at a gathering at a mutual friend's house in the summer of 1999. Sawyer speaks of that event often, admitting that Matt told him how attractive he thought I was, to which Sawyer replied that he was pretty sure I was dating Dean and to be practical and leave it alone. Which Matt seemed to do, for a long time.
I never had any problems talking to Matt, we hit it off as friends right away. In retrospect, I see that he at least had the sense not to make any overtures toward me, as he was friends with Dean, too. However, when shit started to hit the fan between Dean and me, he was available - first as a shoulder to cry on, then as a rebound fling.
Dean was temporarily staying with a "friend" about an hour's drive from our apartment, so I had the place to myself. I needed to get out of the house and start doing social things again, so Matt was an obvious choice. I went to preppy suburban parties with him and his townie friends, he went to raves and shows with me. I never took it seriously, and he insisted that he didn't either. I should have known better, as I was the worldly one and he was the one who hadn't dated too many girls, but I believed him when he said he wouldn't get hurt. Of course it turned out badly, mostly because Dean came back to town and started causing trouble. But it did feel good at the time.
So when we were trying to get back together before Sawyer moved, it was really no surprise that Matt didn't show up, however much he assured me over e-mails that he wasn't mad anymore. Sawyer, Dean and I ended up hanging out at my house, watching movies, listening to music, talking, having a few drinks. It was fun to catch up. We've been e-mailing occasionally since that day.
Fast forward to this weekend. Sawyer is back in town, and we have a gathering set up at Dean's house. Matt shows up, which I think is awesome, but Carl still won't come out. The four of us head out to dinner at one of our usual spots, like no time has passed at all. Then we adjourned to my house, drawn by the prospect of that half a bottle of Absinthe I have been saving for just such an occasion. So on goes the Tool CD, out come the good glasses and the conversation ensues.
Mark seemed a little upset at first, but then realized that he could speak to these people on the type of intellectual level he has only ever experienced with me. They are well versed in the same type of metaphysical and esoteric philosophies that I am, the same sort of ideas that I have turned Mark onto through our years together. The conversation was excellent.
Dean started doing his most famous party trick - he was reading Mark like a book. Dean has always been so in tune with the flow of energies that he can figure out most people instantly. Some mistake it for "psychic powers" or some such nonsense, but those of us who know him know that it is simply the way he catalogs and synthesizes the subconscious clues most people give out without realizing what they are revealing. Dean began to tell Mark things about himself, to the point where Mark actually accused me of giving away his secrets. Of course I emphatically denied this, as I really hadn't said much to Dean about Mark's personal business. I certainly hadn't said the things that Dean was figuring out.
Matt left early, due to a supposed allergy-induced sinus headache, but I think that it was due to Mark's presence. Mark knows most of what went on between all of us at least in general, if not in all the gory details. He was ribbing Matt ever so gently. Although I have told Mark that I am emphatically not interested in ever pursuing anything with Dean again, due to the way we ended, I may not have been so emphatic when speaking of Matt. Mark admitted to me earlier that he felt most threatened by Matt, as there was more between us that remained unfinished. He really doesn't have much to worry about, I'm still not interested in Matt that way.
Alas, Dean, on the other hand, may be a different story. I shouldn't want him anymore, but I'm sure that's why I sort of do. He seems so stable now, and he did say that he and his girlfriend were just living like roommates these days. He expressed a desire to be with someone a little less vapid, a little more of an intellectual. I don't want a relationship with him, I know that much. But I wouldn't be opposed to a bit of extra-curricular activity from time to time.
Or perhaps I just really need to diversify and I am looking for candidates in the strangest places. Though I have an excuse to call him and see him, as I left his manuscript on his couch instead of taking it with me to edit as a favor, I'm not sure if I will pursue anything other than friendship.
Time will tell.
Sunday, May 6, 2007
I feel I need to diversify my interests for the sake of my sanity. Sam is a very busy person, with his familial obligations, his band, his wife and his precious sleep, he is very hard to hook up with on the weekends. Sometimes he ends up having to cancel our plans. I wouldn’t say that he blows me off, because that implies intent, but for some reason we don’t end up seeing each other, either due to my busy schedule or his. Usually I’m cool with this, but other times, when all I want is to talk to him, to kiss him, to see him just for a minute, it drives me absolutely nuts. I don’t doubt his attraction, I merely doubt his follow-through. For a person who seriously tries to make me laugh, to make me happy and to brighten my day, he surely has the power to sour my mood.
This is why I need to step back. I really don’t have problems with self-esteem. If I wanted to be worshiped, I could make that happen very easily with somebody else. I don’t know why I bother with this, other than my penchant for trying to get what I can’t have.
While savoring my torrid extra-curricular romps with Sam, I have sorely neglected my other pursuits. Although I see him nearly every day, I have completely neglected the flirtation I had going with Alejandro, the gorgeous, tall Puerto Rican “sensitive thug” type from the shop at work. He and I had made out once in the elevator, but that was about all that had become of it. I haven’t called Tommy, my favorite booty call, in nearly forever, he and I together used to be a regular occurrence. And there are more, believe me.
This is the conflict that I am faced with: I am actually bored with the sure thing. I am at a point in my life where I think that sex has to transcend the physical experience and reside somewhere in the mental realm just to be worth it. Before you start booing the reformation of a veritable slut, I must insist that I am not speaking of love by any means. I find love to be an exercise in falsities; the most fake of all emotions, based solely on an accident of hormones and chemicals. I am speaking of mental attraction, the thrill of the chase. I am always up for pure physical pleasure, but I find it to be much more interesting when I have to win it over.
Hence why all I ever truly want is what I can’t have. This explains my attraction for Sam, as I have yet to win him over entirely. I guess that is a good thing, because I would probably be bored with him by now. I think he knows this. I want him to be difficult on the one hand, but on the other I want to have him firmly where I want him. This is why I must diversify for a while. I am getting much too involved in this game of ours.