Basically,
I have three choices. Call the case manager, a woman thirty odd years our
junior, request he be exchanged for absolutely no good reason, as I came at
this woman hard, and as a result, my caretaker and I were awarded special
recognition. Regardless of what I’d say to his superiors, questions would be raised
that would have consequences after singing his praises. I’d in essence relieve
significant sexual tension between us to return to potluck picks even though
his tactics worked. My breasts have flushed out, I feel like I’m ovulating
again, his hands break out in a sweat at the touch of my skin, and although it
was not the very brief French kiss I planted on him not many posts ago, he did
kiss me on the lips Saturday. For someone fighting me so hard verbally still on
one end, he is still compliant on the other, and I have to come to terms with
the fact I’m in love with him: maybe it is entangled in the desperation of
entrapment, gratitude. I’ve run the gamut and realize the disparity between us
just as he does, nearly begging him to leave me even after saying to him please don’t leave my life. “I’m not going
anywhere!” he exclaims. And yet, after being rolled and changed and clothed
in dilatory routine I’ve been subjected to since October, I sat by the larger
window on my left, vaping, and the dowager, in defiant resurrection, said
wearily, this fine spring day, you have no idea how happy I’d be to get off
this bed myself, how this insulation enveloping me is making me lose my fucking
mind. That too, was my rebellious truth. Shall we pick a card? But we were on
choices, were we not?
Second
choice, as previously mentioned, force his hand. Make him sleep with me or
forcibly reject me. Life is short, I’m 56, and to whatever degree I’m culpable,
see whether we work as lovers or don’t, and accept how either pathway changes
our respective roles. I’m not absolutely certain here, but he’d take me out of
hunger if nothing else if I really seduced him into it, or else he would not
have allowed my aggressive foreplay.
Third,
leave it as it is, let him go, which I thought, on Friday, that I had, only to
find myself in tears, once again, four or five hours past. These tears are
rather familiar, in the need for adhesion to an able male protector who will give
me sympathy, or commiseration, but never that which they do not feel, Jerry or
John from my febrile youthful longing, a handful of others. This guy was, is,
simply too generous, his heart nearly literally on its sleeve, I can see the
very dark irony over killing myself on the sword of nigger pity, with perhaps a
little desire mixed in. I have to allow myself some credit in his fear of his
own lust. I see what it’s doing to him. Part of me cares not to have him suffer,
even as my cousin, new found consigliere, tells me I cannot help what I feel,
defender of Joy Reid’s revulsion, my very own. Do I have the right to force him
into something not best for either our mutual long term interests? Georgy Girl
took a satirical bite out of those hormones saddling James Mason to an
otherwise oblivious Lynne Redgrave in the flush of conquest. We’re no longer in
that era where women shifted the balance of power, this one saturated in urine
twice over.
This, under his zealous guardianship, the shrinking cadaver in her final blows under optimal regulatory compliance.
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