Wednesday, March 02, 2005


"Are you sleeping with him?" asked Greekanthy.

With who? NerdQuirk? The dude's 30!

"He tries to act domineering; it's so obvious he has a thing for you."

Undoubtedly so (lest it be proven otherwise). His hands always manage to find their way around my body, drooping over my shoulders, slithering around the small of my back, rubbing my ribs as I recoil in faux-mock horror. And his phone chatter concerning mundane matters - a question here about school easily obtainable somewhere else, a question there already answered thrice before - all seem contrived. The unprovoked sexual innuendos intended for me are positively pathetic, rousing more pity than pathos for such a desperate display possibly rooted in some sort of unfulfilled adolescent fantasy. Anyway, he's 30! Only Nabokov could approve.

It's not in my natural disposition to be overtly physical with my feelings. One long forgotten idiot actually pulled my head back so I'd lean on him in an affectionate manner during a crisp, summer evening. (To be sure, I was repulsed and gagging, counting the minutes until my desire to leave could no longer be deemed "unreasonable.") M. Biologique used to tire himself out, convincing me to haul my ass to where he was sitting as I stubbornly shook my head, knees up in an upright fetal position, assuring him of my genuine love affair with wicker (although in recent times, this has required less, if any, cajoling). There is actually quite a simple explanation for my consistent resolve: I'm just not into you. Period.

I ain't gon' fake it when we ain't gon' make it.


M. Biologique called me (he really took my suggestion to heart when I told him to initiate contact more often). I played the fool and brought up his girlfriend after a flurry of dirty jokes:

"We all know you were a ho before you found the 'One.' So don't act like you're not going to be the first one married."

His palpable silence gutted the game; his smooth diversion exposed more. I am unconvinced that I am the reason behind his misplaced heart. This is a classic morality tale with no plausible ending. Who or what is helping him make decisions: Lady Loneliness or Lady Lust? And the irony of it all, as a rule, we turn to our best friends for guidance and I am his. Anyhow, best of times, worst of times, age of wisdom or foolishness, they don't change the fact that the two of us have plans Saturday night.


Is it wrong to feel slightly turned on knowing I had fucked up his back, too? No, of course not. It's not like he complained.

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