Today when I caught my reflection in the mirror, I looked at my image in disbelief. I look miserable, partly because of this terrible flu that's been on for days now.

I look

pale, and I have two half-moons formed under my eyes. My hair pulled back on a mess ponytail tells me, I've spent too much time on bed and watching chick flicks. The lime green woolly jumper that I'm wearing tells me I really need to do some laundry. My overly tight jeans says I've been busy drowning my sorrows into a tub of Ben&Jerry's instead of the treadmill.

Have to be at work tomorrow. I have to get myself together. Enough is enough. Am more than determined to find my inner goddess. You know me honey, it's all or none.

I prefer the way I used to be. So what if I spend way too much money on clothes and worrying how I look. And as shallow as this is, I love the attention I get. I love the way Mr. T, his friends and look at me when I'm all dressed up for them.

 

I love how a woman in her thirties tells me how pretty my dress is and how exotic eyes I have. I love my voice when I carelessly and casually reply "Thank you honey. The dress is DKNY and the perfume is Stella".

 

But this all takes a lot of work. There is a reason why I always wake-up so early or why don't I take a nap with Mr.T. I wake up early so I can go for a run and do my pilates (so that I stay fit and firm), take a shower (shave my legs, put on lotion and oil so that my legs are smoothest and silkiest of a kind), do my long hair (all curly or straight), my make-up (either casual or dressy) and choose my outfit for the day.

So when he wakes up, I'm there all smooth and silky and ready to serve him. And I know that this is far away from reality, but a simple fact also is that men like how women make them feel. The effort needs to be there. I need that effort.

 

Don't get me wrong. I know how vein this all sounds. And I also know that if a woman is beautiful, she can wear a garbage bag. No one is looking at her shoes, and no one cares if it's DKNY. I'm totally planning to be that women one day. But not yet. At the moment, I want to be thin, and spend, what some might consider ridiculous amount of time, making sure I make the most of what I got.

 

I'm off to do my laundry. It's one big overdue task. After that am planning to have a long, heartfelt discussion with self.  

   

I'm off to have nachos with my husband-to-be. And no, I'm not talking about Mr. T.

You see, my husband-to-be is much sweeter and mine without games or passion. I'm a girl who masters double-standards. And who can settle down for the second best.

 

Oh well, at least the nachos are tasty.

 

It's Friday and the whole city is giddy with weekend spirit and the most exciting thing I can come up with is nachos with melted cheese and salsa.

 

And no, I don't admit that I'm running from my life, filling my time with busy work and plans, instead of creating a rich life for myself here.

 

Oh Sweet Jesus How Difficult This All Is.

 

Ok. We were on a bar and I was drunk. Not that kind of heavy drunk, but clearly drunk enough to "play the dumb card". He looked gorgeous although he was drunk as well.

We had dinner in a little Italian restaurant. It was all very London, all very us. A table filled with his friends and me. Me as Mr. T's date. All pretty and petite.

"You like dressing up for me", he said.

"Of course I do. I always dress up for you honey."

The conversation went on. His friends watching us slightly annoyed as we ignored the rest of the table.

At 22:15 I found myself alone with him in a dark corner of the restaurant. My kisses all over his neck and my hands opening the first two buttons of his shirt. "You know, without my lovely baby, I would have left my wife for you. I love you. If things were different …"  his words were warm honey and milk. Kind of stuff I've always hated. I mean, who the fuck wants to mix honey with milk. I was unable to process any of it. Out of all the games we play "what if"- game was definitely my territory. I could pick up the words "wife" and "lovely baby". The rest of it was irrelevant. The rest of it is the game of "just enough", a game he sure masters better than I. In that game, he is giving me just enough without giving me everything.

And I wanted to slap his face. I wanted to have a fight with him, I mean a real proper fight.  Old school.  Heavy. Instead, I just settled for that quick slap on his left cheek. A slap followed by two tears making their way down on my left cheek. "Don't play 'what if' with me. It's ugly and unfair. And it's insulting for me, for your baby and for your wife.", I said, with  my words all small and flat.

"What do you recommend doing then", he asked and kissed my two tears away.

"I don't know. I suck at playing these games. I love you but I can't have you. Fine. I can live with that. But I can't live with your warm whispers all over my naked body. Let's face what this is. This is an affair and I have no further rights. I assume you are here to fuck me"

"Oh, I'm here to fuck you now, am I?", he raised his eyebrow, realizing now that I've mentioned the word fuck I must be drunk. 

"Don't play the dumb card because it certainly does not suit you", he added with unbearable sarcasm in his voice.

Another slap. This time slightly sharper and my tears filled with more anger than sadness. "I'm not "playing," and certainly not playing cards of any kind. I hate when he insults my intelligence, and I hate when his words hit harder than mine.

Then there was a silence. We stared at each other not sure whether to love or hate. Without a single word spoken, we decided to go with love. We hugged our goodnights and explained the drunken jolly friends that we needed to take an early night.

Before we left his friend whispered me something I should value. Accept and take in. "Honey, he means well but ends up breaking your heart. You're smarter than that. Go. Explore. Let him be heart-broken over the fact that you actually had the courage to walk away".

And walk away I did. Only that I did that with him. And only to find myself having angry sex, passionate sex, most loving sex, and sex of all kinds, with Mr.T,  in a

suite 104

.

And I climaxed, once, twice and then I lost count. Fuck if he has wife, baby and a world of his own. I had him on that very room on that very day. We were playing make-me-feel-like-a-princess and this time we were both winning. Win-win, oh how I love the games we play.

After sex, bruised, fucked, literally exhausted and ecstatic he still refused to discuss my issue with him and instead made me the focus of his desires. I tried to emphasize the fact that I  was leaving the next morning and he would never see me again.

But we had it his way. We left things unsaid. At this point, he was too sober to explain why he loved me. He just did. Plain and simple.

Next morning he had his closure ready. Apparently, we had nothing to move on to or move from to. And that's all there was. Maybe he knows me too well, and knows this is for the best OR maybe he doesn't have a fucking clue how this princess operates. Take your pick.

I'm too proud to send an email. And he's too Mr. T to do anything to fix that. Tricky, I know.

    Still no email from him.
This is just some lame-ass behaviour.

      I found it.
Papers are in order and mind still a mess.
Like my friend [metaphorically speaking], dear and gorgeous surf-boy, Jack Johnson sings;
 

And he sure rocks. Jack if you read this, marry me please. I'm well worth the effort.