Case in Point

<>Martine and I were completely exhausted last night. He called it quits before 10; I was yawning half the time (making sure it wasn’t while I was chewing my food. He really hates that). For some strange reason, he’s always terribly apologetic whenever he refuses me something. He knows I’d, more then anything, would love to do him, but I wasn’t particularly pushy. Not even vaguely. There were some obscene hand gestures over the table, by the salad bowl, but that really was it.

I had walked my fingers across the table in that man impersonation fashion and abruptly spread the index and middle finger apart before looking up and him, raising an eyebrow and biting part of my lip. That was as far as I went, I swear.

Before he sent me off, he’d said he hoped I was ‘fine’.

‘No. I’m suffering from severe attention deficit.’

‘You’re playing me along again.’

‘Of course I am. But getting a little something else would really hit it. I doubt that possibility though, even if I employed all my feminine wiles. And I do have an extensive range.’

‘My heart goes out to you, in particular, your… thingy.’

‘Honestly, My thingy, would appreciate something else other then your heart.’

‘Then it can only hope that some other part of your body works out the circumstance we’re stuck in at the moment. I am cruel only to be kind…’

(I texted him on my way home.)

Clichéd, darling. Cruelty is nearly as noble as poverty.

Don’t know if he got the message, but I was trying to imply that there was a self-righteousness to be found in validated cruelty.

He called me before he went to bed, and showered me with more then enough flattery to last me the night. There was a peculiar discourse in which I was compared to Nabokov’s Lolita, only that I was incredibly aware of what I was doing, and that it was strange when my adolescent build contrasted against my in-your-face, experimental attitude towards life. And sex. And how everything seemed to be at odds with my taste in literature.

I could not see the discrepancy; So I treat my sex lightly and my literary tastes with dead seriousness. In this case, it must follow that I do enjoy a perfectly balanced lifestyle. (The truth is however not quite so. Sex plays too big a part in my existence to be crassly considered.)

There was more mention of how he’d really love to have a romp in the sack with me, and that it was entirely regrettable…

‘Oh, I’m not assed about it. I’ve got the next half a dozen years to screw you in Singapore, and many more years on top of that before you go out of service.’

He laughed.

‘You know, I love being a woman. You can say rude things like that, and guys will think it’s funny, liberating, and no big deal at all. But oddly, for all my candidness, I wouldn’t be able to stand it very well. I’d take insult, I wouldn’t show it, but I would. It’s intrinsic.’

Mr. Big and I had had this conversation sometime back. It was while we were street-walking whore watching. I’d mention that I felt no obligation to sleep with someone else again if he sucked in bed, and close to no compulsion whatsoever to treat him like someone I’ve slept with before. I wouldn’t feel like I needed to call him, or do anything particularly nice for him if I realized I didn’t quite like him after all. And I wouldn’t even feel vaguely guilty. (I would still be polite and as considerate as I possibly can though, until he got on my nerves!)

Men on the other hand (bless those creations of God *laughs*), the nice ones I have gotten the good luck to know anyway, nearly always feel obliged if they hadn’t paid for it, and if the girl seemed to like them quite a bit after. What a headache; but they should stay that lovely considerate, slightly guilt conscious way. I’d be sorry if they started becoming mean, self-serving bitches.

xoxox