me and my dream man -- i was in the kitchen, thinking it's yuri, that's my dream man. he's got the right physical chemistry even if he's not as tall and i was anticipating. we have that manic, mad chemistry -- the one i've hardly even started to even realize it exists.
i love how the current era's use of sitcom humor is mocked, but it is one of the best carry-overs from other times of knowledge. sitcom humor always teaches us something, that's what all story-telling has always been. there are just so many souls out there existing that everything moves slower and at a lower grade -- and really, dumb people are slowing us down. but that's how the game goes, we're all working towards and objective, and against the clock. the closer we get to the end, the harder it gets as the faster it goes. sitcoms generally annoy people who have already learned the lessons being taught.
that's a no-brainer.
so let's get back to my dream man, stupid brain tangent. stupid angel chat tangent. haha, just kidding.
it's like weed was invented to maximize the pleasure to be had from toast, chocolate, and sex. god my laptop is dirty.
so i picked yuri to be my dream man. the equitable eye-level. the great smile. the greater laugh. the sorta guido-ish sunglasses and gold chain necklace. he has the face of a man who knows how to relax. that's a man who can hold his liquor, and his intensity increases tenfold when he's drunk. but after the drunk storm passes, he can sleep it off looking like a baby. he's just so handsome, looks as though he's a legitimately nice, but still cool, guy. i'm over the nice but dorky guy. i'm having these visions that i can see voldemort, and i think to myself how icky he is -- selfish and careless. He needs lots of stuff/choices/options/alternatives around him at all times because he constantly wants to pick. He just wants to pick and pick and chose and include and exclude. a big, chesty bravado. a cock.
now i'm thinking about googling him or logging into his facebook, since i know his universal password. i know that because he told me. pretty manipulative, 'i love and trust you so much that i'm going to tell you my universal password without warning and put a huge burden of guilt on you for wanting to use my password to spy on me.' but why would i want to check-up on him?
but my dream man, focus on my dream man. he can dance. he can court, that's what i love -- he can sing, and will lead me dancing, be very attentive but know not to smother me. he'll just know, it won't be hard for him to know when to speak. we're just reading from the same scrip, we're on the same page. great metaphor. he's tan, but sort of spanish or italian. he loves me.
that should be first of importance on my list: he loves me. shouldn't accept anything less. yuri my dream man nourishes me, being with him gives me more to offer, he makes me a better version of myself. he's really invested in my future. he wants to meet my friends. he likes my special french toast. he'll take care of me in the ways that i need to be taken care of. will i be lucky enough to get a guy who's a great listener?
i keep scratching back at the very base of my neck, just above where my shoulders meet. you might say, 'yes, that's the neck' but the bottom of that part. for some reason, i'm hearing this narrative as molly shannon as british woman. anyways, she tells me 'that's right, ask myself why i feel hot there.' yes, i feel hot back there. yes because i am hot back there. i have a hot back side. he'll nibble my neck to no end. magnetic spoon. he'll burn me skin to skin when it's hot and humid, and he'll rub me up warm when it's cold.
the great thing about my dream man is that i can imagine him and i together in any context. the best two are us in some wooden, breezy, open, luxury but rustic hut with a nice bed in the jungle. steamy but not quite suffocating, lots of sweating. hot sweating. panting, from behind. arched back. raw and loud, like the jungle. not sounds like monkeys, but of the roar growing out of the jungle. intensity and intention.
the second context is the opposite. deep in a winter forest, in a log cabin with vaulted ceiling, a smoldering fireplace, a big deep bed with heavy red velvety blankets. total peace and quiet in the forest, a clear night with a crescent moon, so the stars could shine. it's not as though we're laying down, but somehow floating in the sheets and blankets, just joined at sea. there isn't a steady rhythm in the sea, but an ever-changing melody that keeps getting better the further it goes along. my dream man and i will still have fun sexing when we're old. we'll still know how to find the joy in it, the fun of it even if the sexuality goes in and out over time.
it's really important that we laugh in bed. it's important that we laugh. we need to laugh. hopefully every day. my dream guy loves my stories. i can make anything into a story for him. that's the only thing voldemort had going in favor of him with me, really.
yuri... yuri... i need to escape my current situation, and i will most likely spend a lot of time feeling bad about living here, feeling sad, but it's a needed push to make the next decision.
as in, i need to pee.
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