.authored by something.of.substance.
In order for you to be “safe” sex, I’d first have to consider you ‘safe’. To me, you are no such thing. You are a workable male equivalent of myself: self-righteous, moody to the point of tortured, questioning, direct, and disappointed. It is for these reasons that I don’t like you. These are qualities I would care not to have and yet I tolerate them, times two.
However, my dislike for you as a person is the most minimal of all emotions I feel towards you. In fact, it is far outweighed by the fact that I love you. I’m not in love with you- that’s an important distinction to note- but I love you as a person. I care about your well-being. I care about whether you are happy or sad. I love you for all your confusion.
I’m also confused. You understand me so well that it bothers me. Like tonight, you asked me about my emotions on a night when I was consumed by them. You seem to preternaturally understand the strange things that tumble out of my mouth and applaud that which rumbles around my brain. And, for a long time, I was worried that this mutual understanding was based on similar feelings of pain, but I don’t think it is anymore. I think, instead, it’s based on mutual sleaziness and wanton lasciviousness. Lust runs rampant!
Anger also enters into it. It. Lust. My onslaught of feelings for you. My need to eclipse you. My desire to consume you. My running for safety. I want to stop running from my anger and from your indecision. I hate the choices you feel like you have to make sometimes. I hate that I want you physically. All the time. I hate that I love your company.
But, most of all, I hate that I feel a little less lonely when you’re around. You are both who I don’t want and who I want most. I’m constantly on the fence about whether I would let you into my heart or not. I’m constantly on the fence about whether I should speak to you or not.
Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. But, for safety’s sake, this time I’ll decide.
