je t'aime
Sure, I *can* say them, with my ragged lips. I *can* exhale the words and let them float into the air like eddies of fogging smoke, making women’s eyes narrow and their throats tighten in squeals of repressed gratification. I enjoy those moments when, for a brief period of time, I am their saviour, because I cleanse their filth with my desire. Why can a woman only be pure when she’s full of eager approval? Fucking love junkies. I fuck love junkies. I fuck with love junkies.
They like to think you’re doing it *with* them, gives a sense of equality, removes the notion of hole and replaces it with whole. Oh, aren’t they just complete, when I withdraw with some velvet excuse, and remove the condom, efficiently, my magician hands maintaining the illusion satisfaction.
I lie in bed for you my dear. You think I’m reclining in relaxation, puppy faced devotion, you think my urgency is for you. You assume too much. You believe, because you want to believe, that I want you, *you*, YOU, your cunt. Don’t scrunch your nose up like that, the expression leaves ugly frown lines between your eyes, and in two seconds you’ll start with your mewling half apologies, which are nothing more than emotional blackmail.
I’ll not tell you, not from right where it happens, because I cauterised that particular seat of emotion years ago. You think I would have survived if I continued to believe, as you do, in love? You think that I could have dragged myself up every day and looked straight into my own eyes while I shaved if I *believed* love was necessary or even a possibility? No, I found out a long time ago, facing a wall of shame you’ll never understand, that love is just some wanton *feeling*, as loaded as a 9mm, but less easy to aim.
You can’t convince me otherwise, with your apparent loyalty. I’ve seen it all before. I’ve done it all before. It’s nothing more than nagging dependence. You don’t want me, you just want someone not to leave you, because you don’t know what it’s like to be on your own, to have to live off your own resources. You need another. You need me to tell you you’re worth it. Sure, you’re worth it. I cum up you twice a week and it costs me a coffee and sometimes enduring your stupid woman drama, on TV, in your head, related to your friends’ lives.
Get this, I don’t care. I’d notice if you dropped dead tomorrow, but I’d move on. The refuse collectors would pick up anything you’d left at my house that I had no further need for. I might even go to your funeral, as a mark of respect that I never had for you while you were alive. I’d shake hands with your father. He’d scrutinise my face. He’d know my fingers had been all over your body, in your body. Of course I’d say I loved you, for your father, to his face. I wouldn’t want him to think that his daughter was just some fuck hole. I wouldn’t want to bury Ursula thinking that.
