What is love? Take one.

The man made a great scramble. But after years of pupishly chasing his tail, I was flea bitten. No amount of love was going to make this man love me. Oh, it burned - so powerless I was to his heart's whimsy. He did not mention the hot tobacco on my breath as I passed, rather he acted oblivious to my presence and courted his breakfast like a horny teenager.
I never made it to the table. Hitting send, I propelled my image to a man I barely knew across the country, knowing that I would be thoroughly feasted upon. Perhaps that is all I wanted - to be seen and to captivate someone so intensely that he could barely function through the doldrums of his day. In other words, I was ready to fuck him up the way I had been by this man in my kitchen space.
That is all I wanted and knew of love in my late 20s. Pain and chaos. Maybe digesting all those Bukowski poems resulted in this diagnosis of irritable heart syndrome. But whoever was to blame did not matter now, for finally I had gained control and in my net was the biggest fish the ocean could have churned.
Sean. The towering urbanite from the Twin Cities was calling me. In two weeks the train would bring me to his Midwest doorstep and all my sex would leap into his arms - a pilgrimage of my womanhood back to its molten core. I took the call and compliments as I sipped my coffee. Love was not necessary like it had been in relationships prior and in its playful absence, freedom and joy returned to my smile. I thought I was on to something: Love is need and needs are fucked. Sure. It felt good and I could go about my day lighter than I had been in years. My thoughts were pleasant and no longer consumed by a longing for love.
After two bottles of wine and 40 hours of rolling, I reached Minneapolis wild and beautiful. I scampered to my motel to prepare for my lover's arrival. In the cheap glass of my bathroom, I drew my game face and waited for the ball.