i have fear that my Gift Horse is one of those who (maybe even fervently) believes in what one of my sex manuals calls The Fantasy of Love and Commitment. redemption, renewal, and better living through the dreaded Serious Relationship. he seems to have some kind of terror of being alone. i wonder if he could be a stalker—i don’t know what if anything you’re supposed to watch out for there—by now in life i know that i do not have the most self-preserving instincts and i expect to keep surprising myself with extravagant mistakes—as the same manual says, if you are continuously horrifying yourself with your own errors, it is possible that there is a chronic confusion or anger in the depths of your soul that prevents you from using good sense.
i will say one thing for myself and that is that i am nearly immune to The Fantasy. i am in fact probably chillingly realist about the true love and the monogamous-type relationship. all the years of ismus and listening to other people’s problems grew into a kind of priestly detachment, i guess.
i saw a psychiatrist for a couple of years who told me that sex would work as soon as and only when i tried it with a man who loved me. truly damaging fairytale nonsense. but a sure inoculation against The Fantasy.
i hope i worry for nothing but i have already heard the Gift Horse say the words `happily after after.’ he offered me the use of his washer and dryer—compared me at length to one of his guitars—assumed exclusivity and manifested jealousy—talked in a creepily mystical way about our genital fit and compatibility—proposed that we get him a guest parking permit to park in my area—oh, and other things i’m sure, and i’m not saying i’m not to blame for not being more—i don’t know—vocally ambivalent—i do like him and i was caught up in my own triumphant sensations and it all crept up on me. who knows, que sera sera, and that’s enough for one day, dora.