[Between infomercials and public service announcements: the muddled data of a corrupt processor.]
And the routine, perfunctory motions through which we go as if to delude ourselves and each other into believing this has depth beyond stoned musings and conventional sex.
No longer does his adoring gaze suffice - if he feels anything at all for me, he hides it well. Eyes, magnetic, glowing, but incapable of speech, convey only a vague admiration that I cannot properly interpret.
If there are words of sentimental significance melting there on your idle tongue, for heaven's sake, Nick, let them go! Free them! Declare. Clarify. Find me and follow me.
Otherwise, my only clues are your soulful glances, mysterious and easily misinterpreted, and that brusque farewell kiss on the lips, dry and devoid of emotion.
[If there are words of sentimental significance melting there on your idle tongue, for heaven's sake, M.A., let them go! Free them! Declare. Clarify. Find me and follow me.]
Otherwise, Nick's only clues are my gentle hands running through his thick hair, and my devotion to getting him off every time, regardless of the pleasure I might or might not receive in return.
Now The Obvious glares too brightly to be ignored even a moment longer: Nick and I are fuck buddies, and nothing more.
Of course, this decree is not yet official - I must consult Nick before drawing this presumptuous conclusion. Now, however, having accepted this "relationship" for the farce that it is, a tryst lacking romance, I stand no chance of being heartbroken when Nick confirms that, indeed, he only wants sex.
No longer does his adoring gaze suffice - if he feels anything at all for me, he hides it well. Eyes, magnetic, glowing, but incapable of speech, convey only a vague admiration that I cannot properly interpret.
If there are words of sentimental significance melting there on your idle tongue, for heaven's sake, Nick, let them go! Free them! Declare. Clarify. Find me and follow me.
Otherwise, my only clues are your soulful glances, mysterious and easily misinterpreted, and that brusque farewell kiss on the lips, dry and devoid of emotion.
[If there are words of sentimental significance melting there on your idle tongue, for heaven's sake, M.A., let them go! Free them! Declare. Clarify. Find me and follow me.]
Otherwise, Nick's only clues are my gentle hands running through his thick hair, and my devotion to getting him off every time, regardless of the pleasure I might or might not receive in return.
Now The Obvious glares too brightly to be ignored even a moment longer: Nick and I are fuck buddies, and nothing more.
Of course, this decree is not yet official - I must consult Nick before drawing this presumptuous conclusion. Now, however, having accepted this "relationship" for the farce that it is, a tryst lacking romance, I stand no chance of being heartbroken when Nick confirms that, indeed, he only wants sex.