Strong men can always afford to be gentle.

And you are strong. Your fingers spoke of strength when you steepled them to speak to me, and your frame, lean though it was, felt larger than me. I am honoured - no, humbled - that you lowered yourself to talk to me. An angel paused while passing through to smile upon a whore, and she is changed. A whore she remains, but she mourns for her incapability to love.

He is almost everything I could want from a man: stunningly nice, amazingly sexy, and fantastically funny. He is all I can expect to get from any man. And niceness, sexiness, and funniness is often, painfully, accompanied by ethical thought.

I am tragically drawn, fatally attracted, to him, and thus inescapably punished for all my previous misdeeds, for they must all have been tallied and summed for this attraction to cause me this much pain. And I am further rewarded for my past: I cannot have him, this is clear, and he has made it so; but were he to extend his hand to me, I would not dare take it, for the piercing fear of repeating my past crimes against love. I am quite effectively between a precipice and an abyss. Point, dear angel, and laugh, for you have me now. And I cannot have you.

This is as naked as I can be before you, even more than what I offered you. And you are strong. So please, I beg you, be gentle.

Twice straight.

So I was at the bar last night...

... unusually late, for the evening had taken a different turn than I had meant for it to. Instead of the usual places, I gathered up the nerve to enter a new club, joining the queue, a tiny bit chilly in the tank top instead of a shirt, as I might have worn otherwise. Goosebumps rose on my upper arms, unaccustomed to being bared to the air, and the air, at night, coming off the river, is cold. Inside, it was warmer, and the Bloody Mary, exorbitantly obtained, bittersweet and tangy, stung the throat as it went down, but it warmed further, settling deep into my gut, but lifting almost immediately, riding on the fumes of vodka buried under tabasco. The next two hours disappears in a blur, the first time I've ever really melted into bass and smoke, letting the fog machine's exhalations (I'm sure there was a pattern to its belchings, but who was paying attention anyway?) block everyone else out, the scent of it bringing back memories from seven years ago. A quarter of a rubbish half-pint later, I abandoned it at an unattended table, and disappeared into the fog again.

After, a long walk away, further than I was used to, I entered familiar grounds, and played two games of pool, inwardly wryly smiling at the improvements that loosened limbs and clear mind brought to the game. After missing an easy, easy winning shot, I was faced with a conundrum: Is the trade of an easy win worth the peck on the cheek and quasi-friendship from and of a woman I fell in love with, while watching her sight down her cue? Of course she had a girlfriend. They all do. I do not. Because, the night before that, I am told I look straight. I look straight. I was uncertain whether to take offence or be amused, and opted for the latter. When the bar closed, I left, and, uneager to be home quite yet, unwilling for what might have been the best night so far, I drifted toward even more familiar grounds.

There, wonder of wonders, the magic did not wear off, and BOPP was surprised enough to see me that I garnered, unasked-for, but much desired (since the dawn of my life, it seems like), a hug. At the bar, the other bartenders expressed equal surprise, which I happily drank up, for 'tis attention, and at my core, both inside, and otherwise, I am a whore for more than sex. It is attention that truly wins me, and a worshipper will always be favoured. The men on either side expressed interest, and it was non-sexual. I obliged, laughing and flirting, nodding decisively when asked if I was of a different persuasion. Surprise was added to the previously straight-up interest. I looked straight, once again. I lamented my lack of a girlfriend.

And I will not forget that night, even without a lover's company, or a one-night-stand, because, for possibly the only time, I became the social butterfly I have ever longed to be, and though the taste was heady, once, I think, is enough.

Loving you within myself.

So I was at the bar last night...

... following an evening of paints and oil pastels and rice-paper dripping with inked thoughts. I sat in a tiny rundown room, second-floor, vaguely shady, yet I knew it was reputable, scary and intimidating, as anything unfamiliar tends to be. Oddly enough, it was not terrifying, not dark, shaded, dangerously tempting, like the club the first time, but nice, almost comforting, the cheaply tarnished varnish on wooden floors and stairs slippery under my socks, yet not slick.

And once again, I have managed, within the space of far too short a time, to fall in love with a woman who will not love me in return, who is probably attached. Short hair and bright eyes, a low, gentle, painfully soothing voice, cleverly deft hands that patted my knee briefly. And the girl with the long hair and cheery, shrill laugh, perfect skin, and the pretty dimples. And even though I truly enjoyed myself, even though I gave in, ignoring my doubt, and painted, and drew, and coloured in spaces on the mural of Fun, and wore out crayons and glitter glue pens, and actually turned out decent stuff, even through all of that, I still wish I had been fallen in love with, with someone who would have asked me out that night, taken me dancing. Because I am still addicted to dancing, my lover, you will not read this, and I have no wish that you do, but I am still addicted to the way a body feels, up against mine, demanding, pushing, as fingers caress and brush. Whether it is on the dance floor, to the beat of bass and treble and strings drawing out tension, or on a firm bed, to the self-timed beat of pulses heated. An erotic fantasy spun itself out, fuelled by the scent of watercolours and alcohol-based markers. And we left, and I allowed myself to wander to the club.

There I played five very poor games of pool, my usual spirit flagging, even as I smiled, and laughed, and congratulated the bartender on finding a new day job. And I was tempted to dance, but it is difficult, very difficult indeed, when no one else is on the floor, because as nervy as I could make myself, I cannot make myself dance alone, unless it be within a crowd of people. I fantasised about a girl that night, as I filled myself, and found my mind, invariably, slipping back to my lover. And even within myself, I find him. Little memories slip by, teasing, much like his hands would. And oh my god, I'm addicted to him.

Air through skin.

So I was at the bar the night before last...

... and now I feel, happily, stretched, loose, a pleasant lethargy over me, the past three days having blended into each other, Saturday night tired out, forcing myself to stay, even through the weight of eyelids heavy from barely four hours' sleep the night before, at the club, sighting badly along my cue, losing terribly, swallowing Coke desperately for caffeine, useless, but I kept at it anyway.

I eventually gave in when they closed, and slept on the cab, slipping into semi-consciousness, and fell into bed once I got home, barely feeling the sheets under my skin, as though I had either fallen through them, into nothing, or floated, the borders between skin and dreams dissolved under the bubbles and sugar.

The next day, deeply yet barely rested, I fell in love with princes and princesses of childhood fantasies, and sucked in air, cold from the ice, as a mouse led a band and a lion sang of love. It was surprisingly difficult to hold back tears of deeply-seated jealousy, even if I knew none of it was real.

I barely slept, the humid air heating my skin, now painfully aware of every part of it. Today, I stumbled through the day, struggling to remain alert, dragging bits of rants out of an unknown source of energy, and drank more Coke. And I made more appointments, my holiday now blissfully empty, and I sought to fill them with friends, and coffee, and fun flirts of no consequence at the bar. No strings, no sex, no stability - but who wants that anyway. All I ask is a pool table and a pretty face, and a dance or two. I miss my lover, though.

Caveat lover.

So I was at the bar tonight...

... and, of course, as is wont to happen in those brief moments of escape, my mind wandered, and my lover's image grandly swept in, with nary a thought for my heart. The weekends seem a little bit emptier, even though I've only ever spent one with him, but every one since then, I have hoped, and been endlessly disappointed, for one more with him.

And I realised, as I danced and tried to attract the woman across the bar, even as I sought to appear uncaring, while whirling within thoughts and sights, all afailure, that it would not help. Not even the idea of falling asleep amidst a tangle of soft limbs and flesh, curved and dipped, skin draped softly over shoulders, would help me get over it.

I left even earlier, and sought to ease my knotted, self-disgusted stomach with sugar and caffeine at the 7-11. It didn't help.