The arabesque of desire...a physical strain

I never said that you were running away from pussy--TRUE's or anyone elses. I think you want something else entirely.

I think you want a master. Someone to garner your every move--to yank down your jeans around your ankles like a little kid and to mess up your pompadour with a belittling shake of the fingers. You want a Mommy who will spank you. A Daddy who will fuck you. You're nostalgic because you haven't had any parents to speak of since you were 15. Sweetness, that sounds like heaven to me, but I guess the grass is always greener...

Your problem, just like TRUE's isn't the nature of your desire, but the fact that you won't admit it to yourself.

I'll tell you, it's good to be back in the City, although it might be colder here than it is in the Alps. I walked around town nevertheless, from early morning to afternoon. I watched the seagulls swarming overhead as the garbage trucks made their slow rounds. The park was full of flapping whiteness, from the green and brown ground to the half-lit sky. Along Bedford Ave people smoked like chimneys with hoods pulled tightly around their heads. I saw Noah and he didn't even say hello--I didn't take it personally--he was looking at the sidewalk in front of him as the wind blew straight in his face.

Green car windshields suffused with a yellow light. The smell of bleach in the subway.

Later, on Broadway, a window washer sped through his task. An olive skinned mannequin looked aghast from behind the pane of glass.

Oh, that reminds me. Girl, that picture of J-Lo is tacky. It's gots to go.

Fitz, sternly

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