***
Precious Things
So I ran faster, but it caught me here
Yes my loyalties turned
Like my ankle In the seventh. grade
Running after the rain
He said you're really an ugly girl
But I like the way you play
Holding on to his picture
Dressing up every day
I wanna smash the faces
Of those beautiful boys
So you can make me cum
that doesn't make you Jesus
-Tori Amos
***
I have resigned myself to the fact that I always get what I want. It might seem like a good thing at face value, after all, who doesn’t like it her way all the time? But as the saying goes, be careful what you wish for.
Late last night I started feeling like I wanted to be pathetic. To give myself up, fuck myself off and sacrifice my flower-fresh corpse to an unknown devil. (Preferably of the white variety). But it was too late. and I was too lazy.
Had thought of giving Mr. Grant a ring first, but subsequently admonished myself against it. After all, at no fault of his, he’d rain-checked the last couple of times I suggested a tete a tete. And as much as I hate to make it sound this way, it felt like rejection, and there was only so many times in a week I can tolerate that. But all that thought was unnecessary, apparently. He called me this time, and asked me out for a drink with a friend of his freshly down from NY, of which whatever relationship that existed between them I was, and still am, rather oblivious to.
Caught a cab, had a perfectly retarded conversation with the driver on the institution of marriage and The thing that has now become what the island is characterized by. After many reiterations of the phrase ‘The government very convention’ (whatever that’s supposed to mean) I finally got out and got to the G-spot and his pretty Filipina acquaintance
We had a pointless, silly discussion about Carrie Bradshaw’s steady income (Apparently it’s only possible to live off writing a column about sex in Manhattan the way Carrie lives it if you discount, entirely, essential luxuries like fine wine and Manolo Blahnik shoes) and about how the show itself was going to be screened in Singapore, with censorship. Uncannily, someone had emailed me slightly earlier in the day about how out how he thought it was quite the paradox that Sex and the City should be censored, even as the government tries to raise birth rates; I do not see the connection.
***
Nightcaps at his place.
The girl kept on asking me if she was infringing on my space, and continually told me that if I wanted her to leave, she would. She was, afterall, not intending to be anyone’s paramour.
I told her whatever. If she wanted to stay , it was none of my business; it wasn’t my house and it was his body she was wanting, not mine. And besides, I was too tired to care.
Oh, but I never bothered much over the issue in the first. If he wanted to sleep with someone, it’s his decision. I’m not his mother, or his wife, or even girlfriend, for the matter. And a huge part of the reason why we work out so well is precisely because of that.
By not lying and evading stupid little things we cannot do anything about (like how he’s the way he is and I’m the way I am, and so we will be till the end of time, or of our lives, which so ever comes first.), we’ve a lot more energy and sanity left for other things of greater import.
Recall the time I mentioned, during one of my regular bouts of masochism, about the psychological effects of seeing your guy make out with another? It’s the emotional equivalent to… oh I don’t know, the sexual bliss attained by some people through asphyxiation, perhaps. Well, I nearly had my little wish last night, but I politely passed. It just felt really fucked up to see him kiss someone else.
So whatever. It was a threesome where I participated as a wooden log, or dummy prop, which ever you prefer.
I simply snuck under the sheets and promptly went to sleep.
He woke me up after she was sent home and cuddled me back to the sandman.
Can’t be bothered with trying to find the post at the moment, but I had mentioned previously that there was a great deal of satisfaction to be had by being made jealous and being comforted thereafter. And boy, was I so comforted and snug and hopelessly drop dead tired that I forgot to close my mouth and ended up drooling all over his arm.
Icky. I know.
