Does she know that we're having a love affair?
I have fantasized about telling her. Yet despite what you've heard, I'm really not that bold.
It's funny how the rules are different for girls.
About a year ago, maybe longer, my NY Love, who wasn't yet my NY Love, shared an idea that I have contemplated so many times since. She essentially said that the love she feels for others isn't dependent on how the person she loves feels about her. The object of her affection, of her love, doesn't have to reciprocate, mirror or love her back for her love to be valid, real, genuine. Her love, in the act of giving it to another grows and multiplies. It's her love that makes her feel good.
I'm having an affair with my stylist. She doesn't know. I'll be embarrassed if you tell her. We meet every four weeks, like clockwork. I won't abide by roots. She puts me in black cape bondage, and I do my very best to be patient and still. She always remembers, sometimes better than myself, where I was jetting next when I was in her chair last. Doesn't it feel so good when someone witnesses you? Every visit, she's asks about my work. She asks about my Top and knows exactly why there's that spot in my hair. She asks about my NY Love, and my vanillas. She paints my hair, washes it. She gives me this amazing scalp massage. I have to think about baseball to avoid moaning out loud. Then so slowly, painstakingly, section by section she blows me, blow dries my hair. Complimenting me continuously; it's so soft, it's getting so long, it's so shiny. She makes me look and feel so good. That I compensate her for her time really is irrelevant, especially to me. Every 4th Wednesday I feel so much love.
She's my side piece though, an ongoing yet casual, soft affection. For me to reach the depths of passion I enjoy the most, I need intensity. A challenge or to be challenged, that's what wakes up the butterflies. Don't you love the butterflies? My trainer is my imaginary waifu. She's brilliant, a Gemini, you know my Sagittarius self can't resist The Twins. When I complain, when she makes me do pick-ups or stand on my tiptoes, it's like she's channeling my top. The longer you complain the more I'm going to have you do. Her eye crinkles aren't quite the same, but close enough to bring out my best. Every week, sometimes twice if I am feeling especially masochistic, I am pushed, guided, and encouraged to bring my best and just a little more.
How lucky am I to have so many opportunities to give away my love?
But please, promise you won't tell them, it'll make it weird.
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