is free love for free?

Making out with Alana and hearing things like “Yor so garrgeous” in a soft alto with rolling Irish rrr’s in my ear kept me more than occupied until about 6 a.m. Saturday morning, when she had to drive to the airport. It makes the back of my head tingle just thinking about her snow-white neck and black stick-straight hair, the way when I was nervous after the restaurant walking around the apartment she laid down with one leg dangling off the sofa and one arm on the back of it and said, “why don’t you come over hare darrling?” And motioned to me. She sat me down, took off my shirt, and sketched me for an hour before she leaned in and kissed me on the lips. Watching someone watching you so they can render you in charcoal: turn. on.

She had to leave at 6 a.m. to drive to the airport…to pick up her husband.

 I had to work Saturday and Sunday night, and I was plagued with thoughts of what was going on at Alana’s apartment. Jane’s currently at her laptop spouting off frequently asked questions from this polyamory website. Thanks Jane.

Ford promised to come over this afternoon for tea and to cuddle and watch Sex and the City with me. Plus he had some kind of date this weekend with some little tennis bracelet of a Vandy undergrad, so he said he wanted to “dish” with me. Not to use grossly overused stereotypes or anything, but isn’t he just the gayest straight man you’ve ever heard of? 

Okay, Alana’s supposed to call me back at noon because I said I needed to talk to her about this. Deep, cleansing yoga breaths.

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