if he finds me i'm dead
H...ere's a confession for my secret bl...og...
I lived in northern england for a while, in a tiny town surrounded by damp hills.
I ate a lot of Colt's Foot Rock and sat around in cum-stained underwear, watching Cadinot porn and writing a novel.
No work permit and the boyfriend away all the time.
He was in his late 30s and I had just turned 21. He worked at a home for retarded people and I jerked off a lot and drank beer and lounged around on this uncomfortable futon and wrote down numbers of other lonely guys thinking I'd cheat on him but I never did.
Once he found a number I had written down in the opening pages of Giovanni's Room and we had a big fight about that and later he forced sex upon me but usually things were chill and we drove around a lot, fucked, ate pizzas, watched movies, blah blah blah.
My novel was about a young American who fucks around on his English boyfriend with a young polish dude in London.
It was all true, which was the major fault of the novel.
We broke up, it ended badly, and he's never gotten over me.
Recently I found his myspace profile. He's, what, in his early 40s now?
Shhh.
I read his myspace blog which is pathetic and sad and boring.
The other day he wrote about me.
It filled me with a dirty swill of prideful power, to know I still had this kind of control.
I lived in northern england for a while, in a tiny town surrounded by damp hills.
I ate a lot of Colt's Foot Rock and sat around in cum-stained underwear, watching Cadinot porn and writing a novel.
No work permit and the boyfriend away all the time.
He was in his late 30s and I had just turned 21. He worked at a home for retarded people and I jerked off a lot and drank beer and lounged around on this uncomfortable futon and wrote down numbers of other lonely guys thinking I'd cheat on him but I never did.
Once he found a number I had written down in the opening pages of Giovanni's Room and we had a big fight about that and later he forced sex upon me but usually things were chill and we drove around a lot, fucked, ate pizzas, watched movies, blah blah blah.
My novel was about a young American who fucks around on his English boyfriend with a young polish dude in London.
It was all true, which was the major fault of the novel.
We broke up, it ended badly, and he's never gotten over me.
Recently I found his myspace profile. He's, what, in his early 40s now?
Shhh.
I read his myspace blog which is pathetic and sad and boring.
The other day he wrote about me.
To know that after all these years...And that's when things suddenly became very difficult for me. Within seconds, my heart was hammering and my stomach leaping up to wobble thumpingly at the back of my throat. (So much for a mellowed evening with malt whisky and a brief blog / chat).
I asked XXXX to stop and explained that I could not hear about Darling Daintyfoot - it is unhelpful for me. Or, rather, I 'd be more than happy to hear from him and try to sort out some of the spoil from our past relationship, which troubles me (not sure about Darling Daintyfoot) so very deeply.
It filled me with a dirty swill of prideful power, to know I still had this kind of control.
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