Sunday, May 21, 2006


Foreplay lasts four hours.

The man is a beast.

I requested MArt's company at two this morning. He agreed after a bit of prodding. Dragging himself out of bed, he repeatedly rung the buzzer of some poor family living in an adjacent building before realizing he was at the wrong address.

He left half an hour ago. All 5'10" of him. I made him breakfast then kicked him out.

Sex with him is tremendously pleasurable. He is an extremely attentive lover. But I think he is beginning to get emotionally attached.

The twist: There's another woman.

Sort of.

MArt's friends - our friends - assure me she's just someone who cannot accept the demise of their relationship and continues to invite herself over.

Bullshit, I say with a chuckle.

"You're not the other-fucking-woman," MArt re-asserts.

"Then what is she?"

He looks down and rubs the back of his neck:

"Let's just say, she's not my girlfriend, but she would be very, very angry if I said she wasn't."

What does that even mean?

He spreads my legs.

"Shouldn't you be reporting this back to your woman?"

He digs into me deep, his beautiful saucer eyes holding my gaze with authentic adoration. "You're my woman." Pillow talk consists of one-liners hurled between political and artistic yarns.

He pulls out. I walk out. He pins me down. I struggle.

We joke, we laugh. He wants more. I ignore, capable of satiating only sexual appetite.

I fall asleep, against his heartbeat, inside his limbic cage.

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