I’m back. I have cried my fearful tears, but now I have returned to my natural state.
Oh, Christie! When I finally admitted to you just how badly I want to get my hands on Lawrence, your reaction seemed so defensive that I constructed some temporary walls—more of a cubicle, because at least I could see my way out.
Defensive, and accusatory, too. I felt as though you’d reached a conclusion on my behalf out of your own insecurities. I think I was especially offended by your insinuation that a relationship I value more than anything is fraudulent. Just the idea of not being in Love with him—especially when I have thought of nothing but him for the past few weeks—infuriates me.
I can remember saying to myself, “Will you please find something else to think about?” I’ve been daydreaming so much that I feel obsessive. His energy is present in my dreams and with me when I wake up in the morning and I could enjoy nothing more.
I feel that you took my thought to an extreme, and you made me feel cornered, just like when Ms. Pape would psychoanalyze me and her conclusions didn’t feel right, but I would accept them without question. I valued her insights, as I value yours.
But you’re wrong this time, Christie. That tryst, or whatever you’d call what happened between us, was one time, one night. Anyway, you’re the one who said we couldn’t keep “doing that.” I respected your wishes because I respect you as a person. I respect you as a friend.
I can say with great certainty that men much more effectively excite my imagination and sexual interests than women. Women are beautiful, yes, but to quote Ally McBeal after she kissed Ling: “There’s something missing: a penis.”
What I feel for him is different. All Lawrence has to do is touch the small of my back and it sends me. It throws me. It drives me. Literally, he takes my breath away.
Giselle
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