tryst

We had only kissed a few times, and he asked me "How do you like your sex?" -- kind of like if he was asking how I liked my eggs or my martinis.

"How do you like your sex?"

He was a sweet boy, but in the back of my head I was thinking -- does he think he's gonna get some or is he just trying to eliminate all of the mystery that allows passion to purr on the offchance that he does get some.

He didn't get any.
I told him anyway.

Rough usually...sweaty...I'm definitely a lover of the dark...in all cases...I haven't had an overhead light or lamp in my room for a year and 1/2 now. I'm most alive in the dark. Light is a friggin mood murderer. The position doesn't matter. A fight for control is always nice. I like be slammed up against walls. I like being held down. Not too much chatter, but I little creative whisper every now and then is nice. I have yet to fulfill my fantasy of leaving the skirt and thigh highs on. Smack me if you want, not too hard. Biting, bruising, almost anything goes. All of the above would be 110% better if I were madly in love. Drinking is good. Being sore the next day is better. Feeling something emotionally fulfilling afterwards is even better.

After I expressed all of this to him...I turned the question on him. He expressed the need to look into the person's eyes. "You can see into a person's soul that way."

At that point, I wanted to smack him and laugh in his face and say "You silly silly boy! Haven't you yet experienced the lies of the eyes. A loving look holds only as much truth as the reciever believes." Only a fool falls for a lucid look that leaves them faint of heart. Passion is not love.

It irritates me so much when an infatuation with the mystery of a person's character is labeled "love". It's not love, it's desire, curiousness, a dream. I love the fascination as much as the next guy, but it's so fleeting, so small, so ultimately unfulfilling. And that leaves me where?

Where?
---Aware--- at least...