March 9, 2010
Women who crave intensity find me attractive
Yes, I am looking at you, adorably-freckled woman sitting across the cafe from me. I like your boldness in making such a strong statement of personal fashion with your poncho-sweater and rubber boots. To others you are an art-house eccentric, but I understand your need for irreverent outerwear and I applaud it. You have passion. Like me. I don't know if you can tell by looking at me, but I am incredibly intense, and women who crave intensity find me attractive.
How I choose to define my intensity is my business. I am driven by my desires, but I am not trapped by them. While I am not afraid to choke myself while I masturbate, I choose not to, because the pleasure I give myself does not need to be spiked with danger which, although under my control, I find unnecessary. Nor do I feel a need to love risotto. If we are at your friend's house and risotto is served, I will eat it and I will give my honest opinion when ask if I enjoyed it, but I will never say "I loved it" so do not expect me to. I will not spare your feelings by compromising mine.
But do not think that because I am capable of defining the nature of my intensity that it is limited by the ways in which I can conceive of it. If I ever find myself purchasing a large volume of fine Italian ostrich leather or watching several hours of 1970s Danish pornography, I accept that this is a natural expression of something that I do not fully understand yet must embrace. Although I value self-knowledge, you should know that there are things which even I am surprised by.
I don't want to question why you crave the intensity that I am about. However, I think there are people in your life who do. Your mother wonders why you don't get in touch with her best friend's son Jason. He's almost a dentist and will take over his father's practice when he retires. But you have greater aspirations than being Mrs. Jason Limpcock-Showercry. I would take you away from the world of interminable double dates with Jason's squash buddy Greg and his yoga-obsessed fiancee Karen who insists on telling you about her charity work with retards while Jason and Greg discuss their BMWs. You and I could be so much more.
I want to share so many things with you. I want to share the poetry I've written about Iraq with you. There is lot of fire imagery that you are going to find very intense, so prepare yourself. But I know you'll be able to handle it, because you have that look about you, that look that says "I like touching ground beef with my bare hands" and "My decision to litter is made for personal reasons which I do not feel compelled to explain." I dig that. But I dig it in a way that no one else does, in a way that is unique to me and the way I do things. If you are scared, I understand. I respect you for it.
You should know that my attraction for you is not purely sexual. I'm not a sweating, dive-bar fuck goat readying myself for the charge; I know that you would never respond to such an advance. But while we are both above that sort of cheap adolescent dickplay, we are very in tune with our own chemicals. I can't predict how it will happen, whether it will follow our first comfortable silence or the first time I make you watch me pee, but I know that you will be surprised by how right it feels and how well I know your body. I own many varieties of nutmeg oil that I want to you to experience.
Sip your tea but stop coyly avoiding my eyes. I know you can feel the tension. Embrace it. I'm going to write my number down now and leave it here by the non-dairy creamer. You know you'll call.