Being in love is the biggest joke. Sometimes I wish he would just tell me to sod off already, so I don’t have to go through all the insecurity. It’s completely unbelievable. So what if he doesn’t send me a text? I don’t send a billion other guys texts, even though they’d want it, and I don’t care for texts from them either. They’re good looking, rich, intelligent; what is it with this one bastard. Maybe I just want to be in love, and he’s just better. Why? Because he can tell me the story of his life like it was so very melancholy, because he doesn’t treat me like a let’s-just-see-each-other-for the-sex kinda girl, because of a billion other things. Because he’s the best sex I can remember having, and because he makes me feel sad.
‘You’re in love with being in love.’
‘So?’ I snapped back. ‘Even then, I cannot be in love with nothing. I’m in love with being in love with you, can’t you see. You know these things, deep inside you know. The girl you wanted to marry a year back, you knew she felt too mediocre compared to you, that’s why she couldn’t.’
I could die, god-damnit.
The joke gets even better. I’m embarrassingly obsessive and close-minded when I’m in love, and I actually like it. I wouldn’t like it at all (and that’s putting it very mildly) if he said no more. I started working on a comic for his birthday, and everything breathes the sort of psycho mind-fuck he plays with me without knowing it. Bullshit.
Anyway, I met Dee yesterday. She’s lovelier then ever, especially after a long week-end at the beach, getting stung by jelly-fish non-withstanding. I was walking up the escalator thinking about both Martine and her, and I wondered why I wasn’t able to feel the same way. I adore her, certainly, but there was never anything sad about it all.
I’m in an incredibly lousy mood.
I spent the night with some guy I didn’t know who was old enough to be my father. We didn’t do anything, unless you count a Lost in Translation, where we lay down on the bed and talked about how people could never ever be satisfied.
‘Please stay.’ He’d asked me, when I was putting on my shoes just slightly after one in the morning.
‘I’ve got so much to do… And I want my own bed…’
‘I really like you. Just… stay.’
-pause-
‘I’ll pay you.’
‘No! Jesus. I don’t do that kinda nonsense with people I barely know.’
‘I’m sorry. What do you think of me.’
‘You’re a dirty old pervert.’
I laughed. He wasn’t really, and I told him so. I like him enough as an individual, but that was it.
He tired to slip his hands down my panties in the middle of the night. I said No three times before rolling over onto my front and moving a foot away from him.
I have no idea why I actually stayed. I wasn’t even vaguely drunk, and I wasn’t even vaguely attracted to him. He was just… nice.
In the morning, he tried to eat me out.
‘No.’
I was beginning to like saying it actually. I’ve nearly never said no to men, and I told him so.
‘Why’s that?’
‘I’m in love.’
xoxox
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