I have never enjoyed playing games; be it video, head or board (well, except Monopoly). If I were a hero, this would be my fatal flaw, I imagine. Not that I would ever retreat should a game commence, I have the foresight to know that my personality would prohibit the rational handling of any loss.

So, reading this, maybe you're thinking "it must take a special kind of self-absorbed asshole to sit around and think about himself all the time," or "how can you win if you never play the game?" The answer to each of these queries is the question for the other.

Last week, as I was paying my bar tab, I made eye contact with a woman sitting two seats down. I smiled casually, and in the brief instant before I could turn away (keep that part in mind), she uttered "I'm afraid" without breaking eye contact. I glanced down at the polished mahogany wood for a second, stopped gently tapping my credit card, thought "what the fuck was that" before quickly looking back up and replying "... of what?"

Without answering, she swiveled her chair around and walked off. Now, I'm not Tom Cruise, but I'm not grotesque. I'm just under six feet tall, and weigh about one fifty, so I'm certainly not physically imposing. I'm often confused for being gay by other gay guys, and when I ask them why (I always ask; I mean, Christ, I've already enough identity crisis' as is) they rarely mention the fact I wear designer clothing or have salon haircuts. It's that I'm "hot."

I don't turn heads walking through crowds in the mall. And nobody waits on me in stores. The one time I attempted to draw a mandala, it came out like a rising sun... half a circle on a horizon.

I'm "hot."

Before my ex left me, we didn't have sex much. She supported me financially through law school, as I did with her MBA. Our relationship had been deteriorating for some time. I was never unfaithful, and much to my chagrin, was even honest to the point of telling her my secret crushes. I couldn't keep a secret when it comes to matters of imaginary moral turpitude... oh no. But she could get a lil' randy with her superiors for upward mobility, conscience clear.

We didn't have sex much because she always wanted to fuck. Having sex constantly is like eating a jar of Nutella with a spoon. It's thoroughly gratifying - for an extremely limited amount of time. Six years of dick chaff later, I began to have feelings for someone else that were completely different and better than what I'd ever experienced with her. It was not a conscious decision, and, in retrospect the bar was set pretty low to begin with... if you catch my drift.

After parting, I asked why she stayed with me (you see, I'd professed my interests without knowing at the time she was not professing her infidelities). Answer? Because "I'm hot." *GONG bang*

And the "fucking" issue? As it turns out, there's this thing called "a soul," which some people have. And that soul thing desires to be shared with other souls. And that process is called "making love." When it happens, it's like the best drug high multiplied by 33. For six years I asked her to look me in the eyes when she came, and never once was she able (the eyes part, thank you.)

She has my virginity, but I was not her first. Moreover, I've not been with anyone since we split almost 2 years ago.

But I was "hot."


Now I'm something else, because I want something more. Something more than I've ever had, and something I know exactly how to achieve.

Now, I am apparently scary?

All I want to do, all I want in this world is to make love. No games. I want to hold hands and make eye contact and whisper each others names. No fear. I want passion... and after nearly 30 years, I want to finally feel what it's like to be respected, desired and wanted.

"I'm afraid."

I used to say that the world is a beautiful place when you're alone. But I've been alone so long, the pain and disappointment make beauty almost intolerable. Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?





Help me.

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