What would be the perfect romantic crime? I wonder, sometimes, as is typically the case for persons such as myself. Inbred from the outside in; driving around in their Daddy’s Mini Coop! Taking a chance at grad school, heads I win I don’t have to go, tails I win, I do go and eventually find that a trade school isn’t the same as grad school.
Mummy wouldn’t be able to bath my wounds as she has so many times. Licking them with just enough salt on her tongue to cause pleasure from the pain! Helping me through my knee surgery…the scope!
What do you mean? Having a scope done on your knee is almost like surgery. Sort of a pre-surgery, surgery…I felt the anguish of all the athletes that mal-performed before me, as we examined my knee through a scope. Mum held my hand then. Allowed me to miss some of the ‘pre-season’ groom yourself for more cuddling athletics at New Hampton Prep-Peration-H School and she is the only woman still standing now!
Romantic crime is a particularly odd string of words. In essence every time I begin a relationship, via a man or a woman, I have started the spree.
I cry about my adoption. I piss all over the gifts that have been given to me. I offer up my bent ideals of sexual activity and then I just sit back and wait for the break-up to begin.
I devour the love offered like it is a blueberry covered pretzel. I wash down the adornments with my mood of plenty. And, for dessert the love of my life is offered a taste of the hell that lives inside my twisted attempts at conformity like an After 8 Mint!
Before, I know it I am lost in whoever happens to be in my way. Someone I profess to love yet have no idea the structure and meaning and effort and balance it takes to be a part of someone’s life.
Loosing chase is the closest I can come to explaining my crimes.
I get bored. I get hungry. I get lost in my egocentricities to the point of playing childish games.
‘I love you!’ A-Typical response from a lover.
‘I love you more!’ Ambien Grace retort.
This little game goes on and on and on. I think its ‘cute’ most think it is not worth the time of day and neither am I.
A crime however is not committed until a physical act has been set in motion. Yet, observe closely and the act has been rolling down my distorted hill and headed right for the swings at White’s Park, the whole diluted time.
My offense from the first date on:
‘I’ve been told I’m pretty good in bed…I’m always the pleaser not the one getting any pleasure.’
So, the hanger on holds on for the first month of torrid and terrible sex thinking, maybe she’s just holding back?
They hold on for possibly two months believing, shit what am I going to do now?
If they are good willed persons and feel sorry for me they stay beyond the two months and this is the real clincher:
‘Sometimes, I think you’re weirder then I am. Are you actually gay?’
I have to take a pill. Hold on. Okay, I’m back. So alright the Victim of my Romantic Crime has caught on and is ready to solve the mystery.
‘I don’t do butt holes. Women’s vaginas scare me. I hate having my breasts touched because they don’t have any feeling in them. And, I don’t go down…..if you know what I mean!’
Yup, I am a lesbian without a space to be.
Quote unquote, ‘many people think I’m the worse kind of lesbian there is!’
Usually the dust is not even settled on the vibrator by the time my crime spree is done.
I am the only homophobic lesbian with sexual misrepresentation issues that I know.
Again, at the end of a crime, if one is lucky someone is left standing. A lone survivor will guide the misguided back to her soapbox and lift them up into the light of bigoted hatred of unknown origins.
Yup, you guessed it again, Mother Theresa, is always there to lick my wounds with salted tongue.
