Sex With A Famous Poet

Longest. Fucking. Day.
I’m beyond pooped right now. Every muscle in my body hurts to the point where I want to mope, whine and cry, but can’t even seem to find the effort to do so.

It hurts me to see you without your mate. These last 6 months with Chris have been so wonderful, we definitely fight all the time, but the second I’m without him, I miss even the worst side of him. I truly believe he’s my soulmate now almost, like we were meant for each other. He definitely completes my circle.

I honestly don’t think it’s possible to live or breath without him. He’s my strength, the solid ground beneath me. He holds me up, from crashing down even when my life is like a hurricane. I think you are a very, very strong independent woman and I really admire that. You say that in a relationship, you’re not his responsibility. I fully 100% disagree with that, or at least that’s how my relationships seem to work out. I am definitely all of Chris’s responsibility and it’s such a turn on that he can handle that. He fully takes care of the two of us, I want to marry this man.

I had work from 8am-11:30am, then I was in school from 12:00pm-10:00pm so you can imagine me feeling the need to die. But I have my lover here with me, cooking with me because I can barely move (I started gymnastics and I still got it in me (: ). It’s really nice that I /can/ depend on him. Fuck, I’m in love. It’s endless, we’re forever.

When I was with Kyle I made up a one liner that kind of stuck with me, I’m not sure if you remember but it was:
“I don’t believe in forever, but never let me go.”
I think I still hold true to that line. Forever is something impossible for me to accept. I don’t know why, maybe it’s because my parents aren’t together or I’m pessimistic about anything long term. But the thought of him not being there tomorrow, or the next day, or the next, is unbearable so him never letting me go actually feels natural.

I’m going to end this blog abruptly by posting the contemporary poem I chose. It’s kind of fun to do. I’m channeling Harper (Angels in America) with a hint of Zooey.

I had sex with a famous poet last night
and when I rolled over and found myself beside him I shuddered
because I was married to someone else,
because I wasn’t supposed to have been drinking,
because I was in fancy hotel room
I didn’t recognize. I would have told you
right off this was a dream, but recently
a friend told me, write about a dream,
lose a reader and I didn’t want to lose you
right away. I wanted you to hear
that I didn’t even like the poet in the dream, that he has
four kids, the youngest one my age, and I find him
rather unattractive, that I only met him once,
that is, in real life, and that was in a large group
in which I barely spoke up. He disgusted me
with his disparaging remarks about women.
He even used the word “Jap”
which I took as a direct insult to my husband who’s Asian.
When we were first dating, I told him
“You were talking in your sleep last night
and I listened, just to make sure you didn’t
call out anyone else’s name.” My future-husband said
that he couldn’t be held responsible for his subconscious,
which worried me, which made me think his dreams
were full of blond vixens in rabbit-fur bikinis.
but he said no, he dreamt mostly about boulders
and the ocean and volcanoes, dangerous weather
he witnessed but could do nothing to stop.
And I said, “I dream only of you,”
which was romantic and silly and untrue.
But I never thought I’d dream of another man–
my husband and I hadn’t even had a fight,
my head tucked sweetly in his armpit, my arm
around his belly, which lifted up and down
all night, gently like water in a lake.
If I passed that famous poet on the street,
he would walk by, famous in his sunglasses
and blazer with the suede patches at the elbows,
without so much as a glance in my direction.
I know you’re probably curious about who the poet is,
so I should tell you the clues I’ve left aren’t
accurate, that I’ve disguised his identity,
that you shouldn’t guess I bet it’s him…
because you’ll never guess correctly
and even if you do, I won’t tell you that you have.
I wouldn’t want to embarrass a stranger
who is, after all, probably a nice person,
who was probably just having a bad day when I met him,
who is probably growing a little tired of his fame–
which my husband and I perceive as enormous,
but how much fame can an American poet
really have, let’s say, compared to a rock star
or film director of equal talent? Not that much,
and the famous poet knows it, knows that he’s not
truly given his due. Knows that many
of these young poets tugging on his sleeve
are only pretending to have read all his books.
But he smiles anyway, tries to be helpful.
I mean, this poet has to have some redeeming qualities, right?
For instance, he writes a mean iambic.
Otherwise, what was I doing in his arms.
Now all I have to do is memorize it. Ack.
I’m a very sleepy girl, and my boyfriend has mentioned the fact that he’s bored, and I’m boring way too many times now. Lol.

Goodnight my friend.
I miss you. I love you. You’re sexy, and your man wants you.


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