Tag: women

Stalking

I’ve spent the last month investigating things about the girl who sparked the recent changes in my being. Every revelation has led me further down the obsessive rabbit hole of lies and somber truths about psychoses, manipulation, trust, freedom to choose, and my own unhealthy behavior. I’m torn between wanting to know everything and trying to let sleeping dogs lie. How does one reconcile the nice parts of the story—those that are fondly remembered—with the simple realities? How does one stop from believing that the nice parts may have not been truth at all?

You’re sick I want to say to her face as I hold up a mirror beside it.

Now comes the burden of not merely reacting to the facts but understanding them on an objective level. Not allowing myself to be consumed by obsession, which had begun to takes its toll until the end of last year, at which point I was, for lack of a better phrase, pulled back in. No amount of vicarious release upon someone else will allow me to come to terms.

‘Time heals’ is not just a lazy platitude, but it sure as hell isn’t comforting.

Stalking

I’ve spent the last month investigating things about the girl who sparked the recent changes in my being. Every revelation has led me further down the obsessive rabbit hole of lies and somber truths about psychoses, manipulation, trust, freedom to choose, and my own unhealthy behavior. I’m torn between wanting to know everything and trying to let sleeping dogs lie. How does one reconcile the nice parts of the story—those that are fondly remembered—with the simple realities? How does one stop from believing that the nice parts may have not been truth at all?

You’re sick I want to say to her face as I hold up a mirror beside it.

Now comes the burden of not merely reacting to the facts but understanding them on an objective level. Not allowing myself to be consumed by obsession, which had begun to takes its toll until the end of last year, at which point I was, for lack of a better phrase, pulled back in. No amount of vicarious release upon someone else will allow me to come to terms.

‘Time heals’ is not just a lazy platitude, but it sure as hell isn’t comforting.

Season of weak oranges and terrible plums.

The weight of mentorship is heaviest when the future is at stake. It stands to reason, then, that consideration of the future is the flaw, and one should focus on the present.

I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what I want.

The obvious response is to be here now. I am proven, I might add, and leave it at that. Where do you go during a storm, after all? To shelter, and shelter is not without its toll.

I looked at a hamburger I was eating the other day. I opened it and examined its components. The pickle was appealing, but the rest—ketchup, ground gray meat, cheese—disgusted me, as so many things these days seem to do. I threw it away in spite of my preservative upbringing. An orchard would have been nice. Plums, specifically. A field of plums. A nice picnic in the plum fields in the spring or summer. It brings a warmth to me that has been left behind and neglected in spite.

My desires have been painful. I hit her across her face and she said don’t stop. I have been collecting photographs of her bruised ribs, hips, ass, all of which I will delete except for one after she goes away. Some people collect porn in hidden and cleverly named sub-directories—I collect one photograph representative of the whole experience. And words like these, of course, in a far less collected manner.

I predict I will one day call her by a different name and she will say don’t stop, and I will not, because she will be who I tell her to be and will derive a feeling of control from my attention and dedication of my time to her. Her fear will subside with experience, as it always does. Her fear, her indecision, her hatreds and heartaches—they will all go away, replaced by memories and certainties about who she was and doesn’t want to be.

Season of weak oranges and terrible plums.

The weight of mentorship is heaviest when the future is at stake. It stands to reason, then, that consideration of the future is the flaw, and one should focus on the present.

I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what I want.

The obvious response is to be here now. I am proven, I might add, and leave it at that. Where do you go during a storm, after all? To shelter, and shelter is not without its toll.

I looked at a hamburger I was eating the other day. I opened it and examined its components. The pickle was appealing, but the rest—ketchup, ground gray meat, cheese—disgusted me, as so many things these days seem to do. I threw it away in spite of my preservative upbringing. An orchard would have been nice. Plums, specifically. A field of plums. A nice picnic in the plum fields in the spring or summer. It brings a warmth to me that has been left behind and neglected in spite.

My desires have been painful. I hit her across her face and she said don’t stop. I have been collecting photographs of her bruised ribs, hips, ass, all of which I will delete except for one after she goes away. Some people collect porn in hidden and cleverly named sub-directories—I collect one photograph representative of the whole experience. And words like these, of course, in a far less collected manner.

I predict I will one day call her by a different name and she will say don’t stop, and I will not, because she will be who I tell her to be and will derive a feeling of control from my attention and dedication of my time to her. Her fear will subside with experience, as it always does. Her fear, her indecision, her hatreds and heartaches—they will all go away, replaced by memories and certainties about who she was and doesn’t want to be.

Ladybug

Ladybug, ladybug. I imagined you sitting up in bed. You felt more than you communicated. I thought more than I talked. I’d been talking all day, I’m done with it. The compromise was you come over tonight and suck my cock the way I’ve been dreaming about, then fall asleep with me. We’ll shower and warm the place up, I said. Kiss your shoulders, more than like. I had a moment of panic at the prospect of intimacy, but for now, I’ll think it’s just sleep.

Ladybug

Ladybug, ladybug. I imagined you sitting up in bed. You felt more than you communicated. I thought more than I talked. I’d been talking all day, I’m done with it. The compromise was you come over tonight and suck my cock the way I’ve been dreaming about, then fall asleep with me. We’ll shower and warm the place up, I said. Kiss your shoulders, more than like. I had a moment of panic at the prospect of intimacy, but for now, I’ll think it’s just sleep.

Small industry

I’ll be working on the same game as the dude who she’s seeing now. It’s a small industry, but come the fuck on, universe. How many more intersections will you introduce? Another random fucker who messages me about her? Her photo crossing my path as I scroll through my dashboard?

I’d say it could be worse. He could be a local as opposed to a few thousand miles away. Thing is, I’ve been itching for a confrontation I never got. I could do with a conversation not reliant on some electronic device or another. My resolution with the situation’s set but a heart-to-heart would really be the cherry on top.

This aggression’s wearing me down, on top of these work hours. I need to let it out in as rough a manner as possible. Feel for the girl who’s going to bear the brunt of it—or envy her, if that is how you roll, too.

Small industry

I’ll be working on the same game as the dude who she’s seeing now. It’s a small industry, but come the fuck on, universe. How many more intersections will you introduce? Another random fucker who messages me about her? Her photo crossing my path as I scroll through my dashboard?

I’d say it could be worse. He could be a local as opposed to a few thousand miles away. Thing is, I’ve been itching for a confrontation I never got. I could do with a conversation not reliant on some electronic device or another. My resolution with the situation’s set but a heart-to-heart would really be the cherry on top.

This aggression’s wearing me down, on top of these work hours. I need to let it out in as rough a manner as possible. Feel for the girl who’s going to bear the brunt of it—or envy her, if that is how you roll, too.

Disappointment

I started to write about our first night and the disappointment I felt when she turned me down for a walk home, then the second time I met with her and the extraordinary weekend that followed. I wrote specific details, bits of our conversation as dialogue, the way she took my personal problems with seeing women in stride…

But, it doesn’t matter. I don’t want to deal with this build up and revelation. I don’t want a story here. In fact, this is a notice to myself.

What’s important is that this is about how much I want to fuck her. I do not want this fact to be in question. I do not spend my waking hours wondering about her life, her friends, her job. I think about her brown watery eyes when she’s masturbating. There’s the sweet bend of her white knees. I like how white she is. I like the fact that I’m fucking this pale girl who works as a clerk at a mall store. I’m thinking about just how she’s going to suck my cock at our next encounter after a kiss hello. Her teeth are dull. She used to smoke, she told me, which is why there’s a lingering hint of it in that entry hallway, next to the closet and light switch, next to which I’ll guide her down to my cock without speaking word one, and kiss her again afterward, reveling in the knowledge that she just took my cum into herself—glad to—and would go much further in that first several minutes if not for our preference to go out for a walk and maybe see a film before we return for a nightcap and as many more hours of my enjoyment of her as I can muster. This is what’s important. This is what’s going to be remembered. Fuck her like it’ll make her dreams come true.

Disappointment

I started to write about our first night and the disappointment I felt when she turned me down for a walk home, then the second time I met with her and the extraordinary weekend that followed. I wrote specific details, bits of our conversation as dialogue, the way she took my personal problems with seeing women in stride…

But, it doesn’t matter. I don’t want to deal with this build up and revelation. I don’t want a story here. In fact, this is a notice to myself.

What’s important is that this is about how much I want to fuck her. I do not want this fact to be in question. I do not spend my waking hours wondering about her life, her friends, her job. I think about her brown watery eyes when she’s masturbating. There’s the sweet bend of her white knees. I like how white she is. I like the fact that I’m fucking this pale girl who works as a clerk at a mall store. I’m thinking about just how she’s going to suck my cock at our next encounter after a kiss hello. Her teeth are dull. She used to smoke, she told me, which is why there’s a lingering hint of it in that entry hallway, next to the closet and light switch, next to which I’ll guide her down to my cock without speaking word one, and kiss her again afterward, reveling in the knowledge that she just took my cum into herself—glad to—and would go much further in that first several minutes if not for our preference to go out for a walk and maybe see a film before we return for a nightcap and as many more hours of my enjoyment of her as I can muster. This is what’s important. This is what’s going to be remembered. Fuck her like it’ll make her dreams come true.