Sex bomb I watched a badly written film about the virtues of a certain kind of lust. They said there was your regular flash in the pan lust that turns into indifference once its satiated--and then there's the kind of lust that you know you'll still feel in thirty years. Their argument is that the latter ought not be ignored. Unless a lifetime of loneliness seems appealing to you. And while I was shrugging off what I wanted to ignore, what I wanted to ignore called me. More on that later (or never). About a week before that, I had a promenade. I can't call it anything less formal. He had the stiffest spine I've ever seen. His fist didn't waver next to his chest and my hand felt ridiculous and dainty resting on his jutted out arm. I spilled wine all over him. And he was still incredibly gracious and considerate and kind. I don't like him even a little bit because I can't picture him naked. I am a terrible person. (but I got lots of paperwork done--so I'm an officially registered and recognized terrible person) |