confessions of not hooking up

confession: i’m there to dance, not hook up. most of us are there to dance, not hook up. most everyone knows that, except the ones trying to hook up.

confession: i offered to buy him a drink. he said that i didn’t have to get him drunk to fuck him. i told him i didn’t want to fuck him, but i’m happy to buy him a drink.

confession: some people like people and some people are afraid of people and some people don’t like people, and all three of these apply to me.

confession: i was charming last night, for a purpose, with an outcome in mind, and i achieved it. my charm served the greater good, which is the best directed use of any skill, as far as i know.

confession: sometimes i’d rather be a stripper.

confession: i felt good last night, aligned with my intentions and lightening up, which redeemed the other night.

confession: watching the sweet ones i know try to woo the ones they want…i smile inside…and wonder why the ones they want don’t want them in the same way. unrequited love, lust, and desire offer lessons that can’t be learned when we’re satisfied.

confession: he didn’t know i was play-acting when i pretended to objectify him, to show him how being objectified feels. he admitted to feeling uncomfortable. yes, exactly.

confession: i love muscles. mine, hers, his, yours. all muscles. i admire strength. physical, mental, emotional, psychological, spiritual strength. all strength.

confession: when grandpa holds my hand out to look at it, his hand is big, meaty, tough and my hand is pale, soft, delicate. in those moments, we recognize the strengths that balance and blend us together.

confession: he called me the other day as he was leaving town for a few weeks. i had seen him the night before, but we avoided each other, as is our unspoken agreement. i hadn’t deleted his number, but i had deleted his name and labeled his number in my phone with the action i intended to take if he ever called again. when he called, my phone said “more love.” when i answered, i loved more. i listened. i didn’t talk much. the first thing he said was, “that’s a pretty dress you were wearing last night.” he recognized that the dress was new. he knew it was the kind of dress my inner six-year-old always wanted and never had. he knows things about me that no one else will ever know, because no one else will ever again see me cornered and scared the ways he cornered and scared me. he loves me best from a car driving 1,300 miles away. i love him best when i forgive everything (but not forget anything) that has happened between us and listen to what he has to say as the miles between us grow greater and safer.



About angel joy

love is an action verb. i live love in action.
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