November 19, 2009


She asked me, "You aren't going to write another blog about this, are you?" I don't remember my reply.

She is so small. I loved the curve of her back when she reached to adjust the thermostat. I loved the pressure she put on my hand while it was around her throat. I love that she wanted to be fucked. I love the scratches she left on me. I hate that she seemed repulsed by my sweat. I hate that she seemed impatient with me. I hate that she was so pissy when she woke.

She was so incredibly bitchy when she woke up around 6:30. "Are you awake?" she asks. When I say yes, she says, "of course you are."

I try to be bitchy right back, but end up running to get her water, get her some Tylenol, find her clothes. Anything to make her happy.

The bitchiness abates when she realizes Waffle House exists. I find this endearing.

Tell me, why do I do it?

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