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*Here comes the rain again....
May. 18th, 2005 12:57 pmSaid to me: I don't understand why men aren't lined up, beating down your door to get to you
Me: Well, gee, call to mind YOUR reasons for not doing that very thing - chances are they ALL feel that way.
What is it about this exchange that makes ME the bitch? What makes me the bad guy here? Why can't HE be the cruel one, for saying such a thing?
I've lost all interest in playing on-line games. You know the ones, where someone says "God you're so awesome, I wish I could *insert sexual generality*" or "You'd never have such-n-such problem with ME, I'm *general overblown sexual statement*" And you're expected to answer with "Oh, *batting eyelashes* take me now! I want you! Describe in gory detail how you'd fuck me please!" I have never had any objections to someone telling me that they had a physical sexual reaction to pics of me, NEVER. But I must draw the line at participating in on-line games that leave me frustrated and emphasize my empty bed. My lack of interest in such drivel causes seemingly nice men to beat a hasty retreat once they learn that I'm not going to stroke their cybershaft.
I'm so empty. I'm an emotional vampire, I feed off the adoration of others, and the bloodwells are dry these days. MyJoey understood this, and often opened up an artery to get me through a day, or a week or an hour. Because he knew that I could feed him as well, and he was just as needy or moreso. But he's not My anymore, and as the anniversary of our initial meeting creeps closer I rejoice in the fact that I no longer feel a need to feed from him. Even his memory is beginning to leave a bitter taste in my heart. However, I DO still feel that need to feed. The gangbang I've been offered is growing more and more attractive. Anonymous sex appears to be the only opportunity on my horizon. If I were given a choice between that and sporadic sex with someone I know and like/love, I'd obviously choose the latter. But I am not given such a choice. "Wait, Anita. Be patient." they tell me. Is 39 years not patient enough? Must I give you 40? And what's to stop you from taking 41?
Wednesdays are bad days for lunch. I'm alone, and I sit in my car, soaking up sun without growing warm, wondering what it will take to feed my soul. While the thought of suicide doesn't cross my mind much, there's something about the solitude of a parked car in a mall parking lot that causes the idea to creep up from behind and whisper in my ear. In a blonde moment, I consider rolling up my windows, and letting the car idle (LOL) before remembering that I'd have to have some hose from the tailpipe to the back window. D'oh! Smack on the head for that one. So I just sit and watch the buzzards coasting on the air currents that swirl above my office deathtrap.
I love you guys, you know.
Me: Well, gee, call to mind YOUR reasons for not doing that very thing - chances are they ALL feel that way.
What is it about this exchange that makes ME the bitch? What makes me the bad guy here? Why can't HE be the cruel one, for saying such a thing?
I've lost all interest in playing on-line games. You know the ones, where someone says "God you're so awesome, I wish I could *insert sexual generality*" or "You'd never have such-n-such problem with ME, I'm *general overblown sexual statement*" And you're expected to answer with "Oh, *batting eyelashes* take me now! I want you! Describe in gory detail how you'd fuck me please!" I have never had any objections to someone telling me that they had a physical sexual reaction to pics of me, NEVER. But I must draw the line at participating in on-line games that leave me frustrated and emphasize my empty bed. My lack of interest in such drivel causes seemingly nice men to beat a hasty retreat once they learn that I'm not going to stroke their cybershaft.
I'm so empty. I'm an emotional vampire, I feed off the adoration of others, and the bloodwells are dry these days. MyJoey understood this, and often opened up an artery to get me through a day, or a week or an hour. Because he knew that I could feed him as well, and he was just as needy or moreso. But he's not My anymore, and as the anniversary of our initial meeting creeps closer I rejoice in the fact that I no longer feel a need to feed from him. Even his memory is beginning to leave a bitter taste in my heart. However, I DO still feel that need to feed. The gangbang I've been offered is growing more and more attractive. Anonymous sex appears to be the only opportunity on my horizon. If I were given a choice between that and sporadic sex with someone I know and like/love, I'd obviously choose the latter. But I am not given such a choice. "Wait, Anita. Be patient." they tell me. Is 39 years not patient enough? Must I give you 40? And what's to stop you from taking 41?
Wednesdays are bad days for lunch. I'm alone, and I sit in my car, soaking up sun without growing warm, wondering what it will take to feed my soul. While the thought of suicide doesn't cross my mind much, there's something about the solitude of a parked car in a mall parking lot that causes the idea to creep up from behind and whisper in my ear. In a blonde moment, I consider rolling up my windows, and letting the car idle (LOL) before remembering that I'd have to have some hose from the tailpipe to the back window. D'oh! Smack on the head for that one. So I just sit and watch the buzzards coasting on the air currents that swirl above my office deathtrap.
I love you guys, you know.
