I tell all. Almost all. Most of it.
I am an open book. So simplistically honest that people describe me as "weird," "the most normal person" known, "mysterious" and someone who can't be "figured out."
Oh, they're so silly. They're so blind. Common sense will decode everything.
The sex wasn't good, it never is. But being with you was. It was calming. It was exhilarating thinking about how I wanted you so badly for months and how now that I am with you. Usually, I think. I sink. Sink low and sad and confused. But with you, it feels fine. I don't question my morality or my sexuality. It's so hysterically normal as if we were a couple but better. A couple without the crap. The crap of familiarity and boredom and bitterness, tolerance and diplomacy. We are who we are and we choose what we like. We stick to the goods and take comfort in each other's welcome.
I like you. I can love you but I mustn't. What will I make of this five years from now?
I never text you. I'm always the one who starts it. One can only drive straight so far before thinking about reversing.
Sin without the gratification is stupidity. I must clear myself of this mental condition. Of double dipping into shit.
Will any good come of this? Has any harm resulted?
Am I fool? Yours only. Yours only. Nobody else's. They wanted me. They wanted you. But we two meet out of the blue and behind the veiled moon in the secrecy of a hotel room did it once, twice. Magnificently romantic if it weren't for the fact that you labelled it as rape, I being the rapist of course. Of course. Of course. Fetishes people have.
Lead me on and on and on. I don't know what I am to you. But you make me so happy it's silly. I'm silly. I'm a goof. I'd hate to think that I'm not good enough for you. Is that why we must meet secretly?