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10:29 p.m. - October 11, 2004
I'm angry at men tonight: Spec, Nividian, the man who sprawled on a leather couch
I buy a half-hour, a 45-minute cuddle, with a blowjob and a fake smile, seduced by the moment and feeling another's body heat nearby. A rendezvous in a public place - Starbuck's - and I hope I am not displeasing enough that he will turn around without a word, or worse yet with words what were you thinking?!, and quickly the deal is made, quickly I buy into the illusion that all is well, simply one of a horny dyad. How much I worry I'm the unappealing partner, the one who seeks approval, permission to perform upon another a base and intimate act; he gets his nut, I get an indulgence that for right now in the heat of will-be orgasm, I am acceptable. I want that cuddle and will flirt, will squealch the dissent that arises when he grabs my head to kiss, I will play along because I want the salty prize that is my admission to resting a bit beside a man who doesn't know my name and in a few minutes could care less other than that I leave quickly.

Is it any wonder that when Spec calls I'm thrilled, I'm excited in equal measure to a frisson of hesitation, of foreboding? We've been talking every night since Thursday and I hurt, I ache with the desire to be near him and his scent, that peculiar and intoxicating mixture of deoderant, sweat, and cocoa butter. Tonight while sucking the cock of this anonymous man I pretended it was Spec and when he kissed me I remembered those times I kissed Spec and loved it, was not afraid and tonight I was not afraid, I pulled it off like a champ.

And all this is so wrong, so not the way it's supposed to be. It's killing me, it really is: I'm disposable.


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