First and foremost I apologize for the likelihood that the following entry maybe filled with spelling mistakes, poor word selection and exasperatingly long run on sentences. It’s my broken hand that has kept me up for nearly 36hrs straight. This same broken hand ensures that typing is an aggravating task. As such I’m writing this on my phone with my still capable and fully functioning thumbs. Horray for evolution and opposable digits.
Anyway to the meat of this post.
It involved my muse. My first muse. Just like first loves they’re hard to follow. I find myself reminiscing and daydreaming about her quite often. She used to work with me you see. Not so much with me but near me. She was the sultry secretary to my straight laced office peon. Till the moment we discovered we were two sex crazed hell spawn that seemingly oozed out of the same fire pit.
Time passed and she and I were close. The needs of the business changed and she, much to my dismay, was laid off. She got another job shortly after and while we did stay in contact the communication was sparse at best and non existent at worst.
I had made efforts of late to rectify that. Sending her clips of stories I was writing to entice her, catching up with her love life and seeing how her son was doing. All the sorts of things a good friend may do. However the demon inside of me ever clawing the inside of my mind. Reminding me how much I desired her. How good she smelt. How gorgeous her auburn eyes were as she slyly sucked on a Starbucks frappaccino. Double blended extra drizzle. Delicious.
It was a repeat of all my female interactions in highschool. Ever the good guy being the good friend to the beautiful unwitting object of my unnatural desire. What would they think of me if they had known the intricate and intoxicating fantasies my friends had been a part of. Now how many years later I find myself in the same position.
Her relationship that was rocky when we worked together is now completely dismantled. The guy she was with, her nicest and most attentive to date, has reverted to utter douchbaggery. The latest saga being that he weaseled his way into the apartment they used to share and take all the items purchased when they were together. The most vile of these was her sons bed. Who takes a child’s bed while he’s at school and his mom is at work? Utter douchbaggery.
So what is my dilemma you may ask? My dilemma is that I know quite well she is in a weak and fragile state. I know I could swoop in and pluck her from this condition and devour her in a selfish rage. I could take care of her need to vent while taking care of my pent up need to ravage her. I know what to say and what to do to get her to do what I need. Yet here I am at home. Insomnia now has taken hold and clear thoughts of right and wrong have been replaced with muddied deviousness.
I sigh to myself right now and wonder of the douch bags of the world have such dilemmas. Do they stay up late thinking about the consequences of their actions only to ignore them. Or are they “blessed” with ignorance of their selfishness.
She’s a sweet woman. She’s fucked up just like me. I love her in my own way.
…but damn do I want to make love to her in my own way.