Saturday, November 05, 2005

November 5th, 2005 Upload 1 Chapter 5 Part 2 (10,089 words out of 50,000)

She shakes it off, literally (the fucking ditz) but she’s backed into a corner now. “Do you want whipped cream on that?” See how she comes back to the casual, keeps her cool, hides her interest? She does that because she wants to regain what she feels to be the control of this conversation. This isn’t domination, mind-you – this isn’t like Fontay – this is empowerment. She makes the decisions. The influence my primal mind exerts over hers has nothing to do with where her feelings are going – she’s making conscious fucking choices – her programming has nothing to do with the fact that I’m getting her wet, her rooted complexes (in this case her need to seemingly prove she’s more than a typical woman, right down to the perceived importance of her bullshit job serving coffee at Starbucks) has nothing to do with the fact that subtly sucking on her bottom-lip and pretending it’s my cock – pretending she’s nurturing my load right into the back of her throat.

”I’d love some whipped-cream.” She likes it.

“So – you obviously didn’t come here for a venti gingerbread latte with whipped-cream.” She wants to hold onto her perception which makes my job easier, keep fooling yourself bitch; I’m more than willing to help your reality along. Keep those big blue eyes averted, keep those dimples hidden, keep those teeth clenched, keep that hands on the cardboard cup – keep it steady – you don’t want to show your weakness – you don’t want to show me that there’s a woman in there.

“I didn’t – No, no – I don’t even like gingerbread. I kind of wanted to see if you had some free time this weekend, maybe you wanted to get together.” Keep your position, keep me underneath you, keep me insecure and unsure of your feelings, keep believing that you’re not trembling, keep believing that cute and girlish ponytail isn’t feeling tighter than it normally does, keep telling yourself that your pussy is just “itching”, that it has nothing to do with the fact that it’s begging you – that I’m what you want and what your pussy needs.

“I don’t –“ Keep telling yourself that this is just about a latte. Keep telling yourself that this has nothing to do with the fact that your hormones are raging, that the estrogen is sending signals to your brain and telling it that you should fuck my brains out. Keep telling yourself that I don’t see this conflict, that you’re hiding it well by waiting me to finish the sentence, that you’re trying to get me to reject myself so that if I keep talking I’ll expose some flaw, something that’ll make it easier for you to tell your body to just shut the fuck up.

“I’m sorry. That was stupid.” Keep believing that I’m sincere. Keep believing that I’m embarrassed, that I don’t normally do this, that I’m intimidated by your womanhood. Keep believing that I’m going to turn back, one last time, to see if you changed your mind. Keep believing that I’ll find some excuse to make another past - I wanted the fucking peppermint latte instead of the gingerbread – I think I left my keys on the counter – I forgot the fucking slip cover that’s made to protect my hands from the extreme heat of a goddamn Starbucks cup - I forgot to leave a tip in the fucking tip-cup – my latte isn’t hot enough – I actually wanted a grande – I decided I also wanted a Blondie – I didn’t realize you sold Bob Dylan’s Greatest Hits here – my nephew would love this teddy bear for Christmas – do you have a fucking bathroom because I just realized that I need to take a wicked fucking piss.

“Wait – uh –“ I’m devoted, I’m persistent, I know what I want – I took the two seconds to learn your fucking name, to learn where you work – I’m putting time in – I’m not who you thought I was – here I am being the man you always wanted, one who realized my place as your equal or lesser, and you never even put in the time to learn my fucking name.

“What’s your name, by the way?” My name is subservient. My name is insecure. My name is push-over. My name is devoted. My name is workable. My name is attentive. My name is emotional. My name is sappy. My name is partner. My name is compassion. My name is modern man, above my primal state, years evolved – a man of the times, a man that has adapted to fit the roll you women have rightfully taken – the supporter of your need to nurture the world, to make it work, to give it life in a way that only a woman can.

“Joseph.” I’m the story you tell your girlfriends when you’re at the club this weekend, dressed like a fucking hooker, wearing too much make-up and your tits pushed up to your neck and all the cleavage falling out. I’m the story you tell before you go onto the dance floor, grind your girlfriend and laugh as if it’s not making you hot, move onto the Latino guy with the moves, push your ass against his cock because you think it’s “fun”, laugh about it as he turns you around and the sweat is so thick on your forehead and tits that you feel gross because to you a dirty slut is gross. I’m the story you tell before you take this guy home, fuck him until the condom breaks only to fuck him some more – wake up to find him gone, no phone number, no note – you don’t even know his fucking name. I’m the story you tell before you realize how hypocritical you are, before you realize that you’re nothing but a slave to your own desires, before you realize that you made a huge mistake and you need to get your life back on course. I’m the story you tell before you realize that I’m more than a story – I’m your fucking salvation.

“I’m free Saturday night.” Keep telling yourself this is just a friendly date. Keep telling yourself you are just testing me out, seeing if I’m up to snuff. Keep telling yourself that Saturday night might be fun but likely I’m just going to end up being the same exact thing as every other guy you ever met. Keep telling yourself that this, right now, is an anomaly. I’m going to let you down. I’m going to be nothing but a man in the end.

Keep telling yourself everything I want you to believe.


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