March 23, 2010


She is demanding. We sat cuddled together for much of the night. She'd get up, then would return to me. A raised eyebrow demanded I reposition to accommodate her sitting between my knees. She gives me little orders. "Come here," she says; a demand disguised with a sweet tone. When she refilled my glass, I told her she was pouring too much. "Shut up," she said, and chuckled. She overfilled anyway. She lifts my limbs when we're resting on the couch, places my hands where she wants them, grumbles when I move them away. Later, in bed, she tells me to roll over. She tells me, "lie still."
She wants to know why I like this about her. She's touchy about it, presumably because others have hated it.

Truthfully, I love the authenticity of her demanding nature. She doesn't let others stand in the way of wanting what she wants. She does not sugar coat. She lays it all bare. It is what it is, take it or leave it. I admire this. I enjoy it exponentially more because I do not let many people make demands of me. She does it properly. I fight back when what she requests runs counter to my wishes. She's not used to this either. I know I am not what she expected. She tries to be smooth. She tries to be extra polite. I told her to cut the bullshit. She laughed. Authenticity.

She's particular about her appearance. She gets hit on quite often. I love this. I like that many others see her as the gorgeous creature she is. Most woman would be jealous. So many of us are exact paper cut out replicas of limited personalities. I try so hard to blur my lines. I am so excited to find others that do too.

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