AN: Betaed by the lovely Laurie Whitlock.
... the damage is done ...
I get up, not as the man who fell to the ground, but as the man I once was and long to be again. My dried tears are a reminder of how low I have sunk, of how much of myself I sacrificed to my so called love. I don't want to dwell on the pain and sorrow – they are useless sentiments, reserved to the weak minded. And no matter how much she tried to prove the contrary, I am strong enough to overpower her influence, to free myself from her spell.
Yes, I am strong, therefore I feel anger. I'm angry at myself for descending to her level, for she is nothing more than a glorified whore who justifies her lewdness with ridiculous reasoning. She is no different from the hundreds of women I've screwed in allies or seedy motels. She is just a woman who merits no special treatment from me.
She likes to pretend to have control. It makes me sick how I allowed her to hang on to that illusion, how much I fed it by complying with her ridiculous "commands". I'm stronger, smarter and more attractive than she is ... willing partners are not difficult to find. She is nothing to me, there are thousands of women like her. I don't need her to rock my world – truth be told, so far she has been the lousiest lay I ever had.
It isn't love. Love is a special feeling awakened by the arrival of the other part of your soul. Unlike many men, I've always longed to give my heart to that special someone. I've always pictured her as a little ball of energy, smiling and pure, ready to do my bidding, happy to trust her fate to my hands. She isn't this woman – she is unclean, tainted, unhappy ... Her eyes can only convey vacant approval or slight displeasure – she doesn't have human emotions.
It isn't lust either. Lust is a transitory thing satisfied by a quick tumble. I've known my fair share of lust, for I am truly a sexual man. I'm aroused by the beauty of female movements, the lilting of their laugh, the harmony of their form ... Some females I admired from afar, others from a much closer range, but never have I been consumed by the need to be with them. She possesses none of the attributes I've always admired or anything that can be called beautiful or attractive.
What she elicits in me can only be described as mindless obsession ... There is no reason for my fixation, no explanation as to why I can't walk away. The inanity of her allure adds to my anger, for I used to be well known for having impeccable taste in women. She is nothing compared to the women I used to bed – accomplished, beautiful, charming women.
I'm mad at her for abusing my trust, but mostly I'm angry at myself for letting her walk all over me. I need to break this vicious cycle of need and abuse – I need to walk away once and for all ... I need to remember who I am.
