Marxism.
He had quarter-sized bruises on his hips that I hated even though I was the one that put them there. It's one of the risks you run when you fuck a person within hours of your first meeting. You say your greetings, "Hi, how are you doing? My name is Matthew." and "Hello, Matthew, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance." You start the inevitable process of Getting To Know Each Other, deciding in minutes if the person to whom you're talking is going to be someone you'd like to see more of or you'd like to never see again. In this instance, there's some sort of connection. Intellectual, spiritual, sexual, pathological, or some shit. It doesn't matter. However it came about, the results are still the same: you're drawn to the person and, as if by some invisible force of magnetism, you find yourself hesitant to end the conversation. So you exchange numbers. Maybe you don't. Maybe you're in a bar and you go home with them. Maybe you're in an airplane and you sneak out of your seats to bend him over the sink and fuck him speechless despite the fact that the space is so limited that your back is pressed painfully up against the door knob for the duration.
Here's the tricky part.
In the morning, after the Mile High Club initiation or whatever, you find yourself experiencing a plethora of emotions you probably shouldn't when you're so freshly-fucked that your hard on hasn't had time to go down yet. Disgust. Animosity. Utter repulsion. Why? Because this person you were so incredibly attracted to, why'd they fuck you if they were as perfect as you had originally thought? You think, they must have a serious problem if they fucked me. You think, there must be something wrong with them if I'm the best that they can get.
This could potentially explain me thoroughly. Not that my confidence is suffering. I know exactly what kind of person I am. I know that I'm not the sort of person anybody wants to bring home to mama, because I'd probably coerce her into fucking me, too, just because I could. Under all normal circumstances, I use people and discard them. Under all normal circumstances, if I want to fuck someone, I do it, and then I hate them for it because I know I could never fall in love with a person that'd fuck a person like me. There are occasional exceptions, really. I do it and I make a lifelong friendship.
I suppose it was only a matter of time before I encountered a person who put a wrench in all the logic I've spent years carefully constructing. It was probably the two weeks of nothing that did it. I think I called it in the beginning. I knew it was bound to seriously fuck with my head and I was correct. I think about you a lot, and usually the process involves my hands. For a while, I didn't even require that. I hate it when I don't know what's going on, but for once, I'm kind of happy that I'm just going with the flow of things.
Anonymous comments were never off in the first place. Leave one or three.
Here's the tricky part.
In the morning, after the Mile High Club initiation or whatever, you find yourself experiencing a plethora of emotions you probably shouldn't when you're so freshly-fucked that your hard on hasn't had time to go down yet. Disgust. Animosity. Utter repulsion. Why? Because this person you were so incredibly attracted to, why'd they fuck you if they were as perfect as you had originally thought? You think, they must have a serious problem if they fucked me. You think, there must be something wrong with them if I'm the best that they can get.
This could potentially explain me thoroughly. Not that my confidence is suffering. I know exactly what kind of person I am. I know that I'm not the sort of person anybody wants to bring home to mama, because I'd probably coerce her into fucking me, too, just because I could. Under all normal circumstances, I use people and discard them. Under all normal circumstances, if I want to fuck someone, I do it, and then I hate them for it because I know I could never fall in love with a person that'd fuck a person like me. There are occasional exceptions, really. I do it and I make a lifelong friendship.
I suppose it was only a matter of time before I encountered a person who put a wrench in all the logic I've spent years carefully constructing. It was probably the two weeks of nothing that did it. I think I called it in the beginning. I knew it was bound to seriously fuck with my head and I was correct. I think about you a lot, and usually the process involves my hands. For a while, I didn't even require that. I hate it when I don't know what's going on, but for once, I'm kind of happy that I'm just going with the flow of things.
Anonymous comments were never off in the first place. Leave one or three.