Tuesday, October 25, 2016

The Investment.

When I was young, I met this man. It was a lovely story. 

We had a conversation... he pulled out his dictionary and bewitched me with his words. 

I searched for him for months on end, but he was hibernating. I sent out a message and invited him to a milestone celebration. He received the encoded innuendo and arrived, exhausted, but somewhat present. 

I overloaded his mind with stupefiantes and played with his affection. I watched him sing R Kelly songs to walls and misunderstood the dynamics of the situation. He went home tired, wired, wide eyed, absent... left without my number. 

Eventually I found him, in a large open space, surrounded by socialites I was bound to interact with. Not written in any stars, but charmed by words and seduced by his linguistics. 

I profusely apologised as I felt responsible for my incendiary actions. Leaving his abode, I was both intrigued and entertained by our playful interaction.

For some reason, I thought I had figured out his number.

Later that week playing pool at the local...coincidentally he was there.

It felt indescribably electrifying in every cliched sense of the word. And it was a most definitely compromising situation. In an interesting predicament, an old beau had joined me, helplessly examining our behaviour. Trying not to look, yet the charged glance between the new and cold dismissal of the old was far too obvious to ignore. 

Only twice flickered flares of penetrating lightning, and as they say: that was that. 

Lubricated by layers of alcohol, we explored some dingy scenes together. I miss-kissed him, faulting - the first sign I thought maybe I was mistaken. 

It was daylight and I lay on his couch, entangled in his warmth, exploring the biggest sex instrument - his brain. 

Reaffirmed, reassured with absolution. Thank fuck for small wonders: it worked. 

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