Monday, May 15, 2006

"Woah, you taste like cocoa butter."

If everything is material, and everything is eventually recycled, then where does that leave consciousness?

I posed this question to MArt while we were in bed. We talked most of the night (after watching the Ah-nuld cheesefest, "Running Man") until I planted one on him:

"Maybe if we cut the girlfriend/boyfriend crap, I might not go running off like I did the rest," I suggested. "None of that, you know, typical stuff. Maybe then, I wouldn't be such a psycho."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Typical stuff, as in, dating?"

"Yes, exactly. Deal?"


I was listening to the shit I was feeding him beforehand and it dawned on me that I was just making excuses to dislike him. Physically, MArt is not my type: average height, average build, on the hairy side, a prototypical East Coaster. But mentally, I want to make love to him over and over again because the things he's well-versed in blows my mind - he is so intelligent. Not once did I feel the need to "explain" concepts, theories, anything to him - I've never been so at ease with anybody.

And the soundtrack to our heavy hanky panky? John freakin' Coltrane. Lord knows, I swooned.

I guess I took a lesson from NorIda and CatCouver (both of whom are having/had very good relationships with men less-than-aesthetically enviable): Wild men make for wild lovin'. Give them a chance.

MArt said something that implied I was out of his league. Hell, I've never met anyone as kind (and equally anal about good manners). So we're even.

"You know what this means?" I asked him as I rested my eight-pound head on his chest.


"It means nice guys do win in the end. And psychos can too."

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