Her short skirts made me curious just like tight pants did. There is nothing but tension between a pretty face and a crotch. I remember that feeling better than the details of our first meeting. I liked her right away. It wasn't long before I couldn't stand being away from her. Before I was desperate for her. There was no resistance, no hesitation, none of that queasy sense of the other's fear that boys generate when I get too close. She was willing. We talked like neurotics in therapy and fucked like machines.


“Do I ever deny you anything?” That's what I should have told him. He should know what the answer is. I do whatever he wants me to. That's just how it's been. Always. But that's not all I do, I do what I want too. That's what I'm doing now. If I am going to enter his story, I am also going to enter mine.


Why do i do what he says? He has his reasons for wanting things written down. I don't really care what they are. They are his reasons, not mine. Maybe he wants to be sure i'm paying attention. It's not so he can read this later, ‘cause he can’t. I guess that's it. Something is missing since he can't see any more. Something is missing and he's trying to replace it with something else. And I guess I do care after all, since the first thing I‘ve written, is all about his motivations. So in writing this, I’ve managed to figure something out about him. But what could he figure out about himself this way. And there is still the question of why I agreed to do this.

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