i suddenly realized i'd been sliding my hand sinuously up and down the metal pole next to my seat, blushed, pulled out a magazine. irony tp distract myself from him by reading about pat buchanan bitching 'cause he got called an extremist. jesus. if he's not, no one is.
the music is too beautiful. it hurts. god, i wanted him so badly last night, but i'm terrified by his impending visit. i want to curl up inside him, lose myself in him, taste and touch and smell him. i want to experience his tongue on mine. jesus, i sound like a 5-year-old -- i want, i want, i want. shit.
i get tied in knots when he doesn't answer my email. severe net weirdness and massive lag had me screaming at my terminal the other night. i talked jessie's ear off that night, calming down, getting the frustration out. i want immediate answers; he wants to think. he's a poli sci grad student with the mind of a librarian and the soul of a poet.
and the heart of a llama.