November 13, 2009

Confessions of a Slut


I had one of those dreams again. The type that clings and wraps you up and holds on tight. So tight you have a difficult time drawing a good, solid breath. I'm trying. I'm mainlining the espresso. But damn—in my head, I am back in the newspaper building, up on the cold, shadowy staircase with my editor. He was always so fucking nice to me. He paid attention. He told me things. He took me seriously. I don't know how else to put it. I wasn't in the league of girls he dated—and yet I don't think he talked to the girls he dated the way he talked to me.

I was back there in my dream, listening, and I'm drenched in that nostalgia again.

Is this why I'm such a voyeur? Is this why I get such a perverse pleasure in hearing other people's stories? I was fucking groomed for it. I had so many different men put me in this role. Where they told me their secrets. They told me their desires. They told me what they did to other women.

God.

I've been up for hours. I'd go back to sleep if I could. Instead, I'm going to sit on the stairs outside and watch the sun rise while I drink my coffee. And in my head I'll listen to the boy spill all those twisted, kinky tales he tells no one else.

XXX,
Alison

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