Saturday evening with M. Biologique didn't go quite as planned. He was irritated and I didn't want to deal with his shit. I was acting obnoxious and he was too stressed to give a damn. And each of us wanted affection at times when the other just wanted to be left alone. In a nutshell: we simply weren't on the same wavelength. It got better as the night progressed soon after I took a nap in his bed. He crawled in with me an hour later while taking a breather from JuanaMachine's down the hall. But by then, I was irreparably bummed so I made his bed, got dressed and left.
I spoke to Sexy Spinter last night and had a revelation. I think I deliberately put myself in situations where implosion is imminent. Where the participants all end up losers, lying face down in a poppy field with lacerations (the bad kind) across their tender backs. I say I hate formalities and "games." That's a lie because I know I test men. I test them to see how much of me they are willing to put up with before deciding to bolt. I somehow morph into this caricature of myself: an arrogant baffoon, at once sarcastic and cynical, irrational and childish. And here's the funny part: There is no way to placate me anyway. If my requests are calmly granted, my immediate reaction is "Damn, boy has no backbone!" If my demands are forcibly denied, I get offended by their lack of tact and decorum. There is no pleasing me. In both situations, I am left wondering why "it" didn't work out. In both situations, I rationalize that I was right to assume they weren't good enough for me (indeed, I should be commended). They must just be angry because I prematurely revealed their deadly character flaws, I convince myself. Of course, I start wallowing in a pool of self-pity in a predictable fashion, eating designer ice cream, feeling used and abused, led on, yet smugly self-congratulatory. It's a feeling characterized by an instant rush of false maturation and superiority which soon dissipates to form a hardened shell, cocooning me inside a world of "high standards" and "low expectations." It's a masturbatory fantasy fit for fondling.
So eureka! I've discovered my weakness. Now what?
Oh look. M. Biologique is calling. Back for more, perhaps? I don't think he can handle a higher dosage of Lilrosis: too much and we're back to square one. (