Dear Mr. Wrong: (not James)
I was never right for you. You had a fixation in your head that you wanted a sex partner, an additional one, in addition to the complacent one you had. I wasn't X rated, not even R. But that picture could not be modified once you got it in your head. And now with some comfort, I address you with remote concern. Did you reject my last comment? Most likely. I am not your sexual object. I am not your reservoir of pleasure you can escape to. I am a real human being who doesn't want to be captivated or courted from the sideline. Your plans change faster than an L.A. Laker winning streak. You want this. You want that. You are going here. You are going there. You are taking a break. You are staying. You may rent this. You may not. But you were really testing me to see if I would jump and how high b/c you decided to fly the coup again and ditch your life responsibilities staring you in the face from a bulldog sergeant. "What's a sweetheart like you doing in a dump like this?" Does the bulldog sergeant give you orders? Walking papers? Or are there any conditions at all except a gun pointed to your head to stay with her? You have less backbone than Christopher Reeve. Did she take you by the hand b/c of your wishy washy self.? She needed someone to push around and you were the easiest bloke to dance to her music? My compassion ran dry like the inkless vessel of my fountain pen. You couldn't decide what you wanted if you had a $4 dollar vs. $1 hamburger in front of you. So this is where the train stops. A choice between the mundane routine and the perilous. Do you think I am gong to sit and wait for you next impulsive move? Hell to the No. Good luck with that. When is your one way train back to Dublin?