I let Matt know that I was onto him by writing this:"Well, I'm sure it's not the depths of my personality into which you enjoy delving, nor my keen, intuitive mind that you prefer penetrating. And I am okay with that. (I.e., "You're lucky you're hot and funny.")
He wrote back,
"i enjoy your personality, and i admire and respect your sharp mind, i just don't care to penetrate THEM."
Crappy punctuation and all.
This is what happens when you have intercourse with a police officer. It gives Fuck da Police a whole new meaning, enriching it into a more multifaceted experience. Yet a man with a gun and badge (and a short, gel-crisped wiffle haircut) is not capable of writing to the depths I prefer. I simply must remember this.
Matt and I met through a friend during the last time Anthony and I broke up (before this last last time), and we were really only using each other for sex. Matt also has a thing for Asians.
[We sucky-sucky Asian fuck toys call this affliction, "Yellow Fever," that all you white devils get caught with. Betcha didn't know that, Round-Eye, didja!]
But it was fun, in a non-commital, "what the hell am I doing here with this stranger" sort of way. There was all the potential for a serious and substantial drinkin' buddy partnership to bloom between us, but it would take him about a week and a half for him to return any of my calls. When he did get in touch, he'd ask me, "Why haven't you called?" [Insert incredulous stare here.] And therefore, I have decided to terminate our couplings.
Or, I may further agree to have sexual relations with him ONLY if he pays me a lot of money. Would the hand at the end of the long arm of the law fork over $50 for a hand job? I am just the idiot to try and find out. Me love you long time, mistah!
I once asked him, "What would you do if I told you all my friends were drug dealers?" and then I never heard from him for 2 months. When we did get around to emailing each other, he wrote, "i have VERY good memories of the last time we hung out."
Well, of course you did: it was 2:30 in the morning and we did it on the floor in front of my full-length mirror! Remember when I freaked you out with the fresh blood stains on my comforter? Bet that scared ya, huh? Wasn't that a hoot? It was from my feet, when we went back to romping on my bed! I'd gotten carpet burn on the tops of my feet so bad that they bled and smeared all over the sheets!
The last email I sent Matt said that he should take me to a diner so that I can ask him a million questions like at an interrogation--because I knew he secretly really liked it when I did that--and I would even let him buy me my coffee. I haven't heard back from him, I can't understand why.
Maybe I should've said Dunkin Donuts instead of a diner. But then again, maybe I should stop messing with him. Whoever heard of an English major with a cop?