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© jonathan saunders
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Dirty, dirty boy. That’s officially the first dirty photo you’ve sent me of yourself. I’m sure it’s wrong how much I like — both seeing it and the pure act of receiving it.
I was all alone.
It was after midnight.
I was in an empty parking lot.
I found myself holding a piñata.
Made just for me, to look just like me.
When it was happening, while she was touching me, I realized there were rules happening I wasn’t in on. The limits, acts, ways, whatever, that made me realize, made me feel, like nothing but a customer or the random other the real things weren’t for anymore. I embraced this in the moment as it was all I could have, was allowed to have. I feared it was my last chance, moment, touch, so I pushed my face in with all my might and tried to not scream till my part was done. When it was all done I turned out to be correct against all my hopes. There would be no correction, chance of anything, again.
I swore to myself I would never tell her. Then some time later, I did. I was weak, I couldn’t hear what was being said to me through that phone, it was all so unreal to have unravel. All that I knew, all that I was told, all about everything, wasn’t a truth. So in all my weak, I shared the only secret I had in return.
A year, maybe two, thinking back upon my weak, upon what I had shared against my own will, I realized how wrong I had been. If I had been one of her few actual customers, I could have found some dignity. Her customers know that is all they are. I never got to be that kind of real, either.
I Am Scared Of Some Darks Too James – In A Place I Never Should Have Been
I Knew Something Bad Was Coming, But Not What Again Was
I Can Never See It Approaching
I Received An Electronic Letter From My Father
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(It started with)
I was disappointed in your latest post…
(It ended with)
Sent from my iPad
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I Once Asked You To Heal Me, I Even Said Please
1:24:27 PM, Tuesday, August 14, 2012 – 26th Street & Santa Monica Boulevard – A Stranger Out My Window At 35 Miles Per Hour
– 296 Days & 14.3 Miles –
I saw you in the crowd. You caught my eye and I starred until discovered, then I stopped. Blushing and pretending I wasn’t. I milled about in the crowd and you caught my eye again. I starred some more. At first, it was just your beauty, then I thought maybe I had met you before, seen you before, but I didn’t know where. I couldn’t place you. I stood beside your conversation, listening in. I saw you take out your phone. I knew that color, so I thought I did. I entered the conversation. I remarked on your choice of colors, in many ways. You let me photograph your hand, well, because of its colors too. Then, standing back again and again starring, I remembered. I said, “I think I have a photograph of you.” Last summer, I made a photograph of you out my car window I explained. I got out my machine to show you, you had doubts. I asked if you had a cut on your leg, using again, a certain color bandage. You said you didn’t remember, but maybe, as it was the kind of thing you do. The machine was taking forever, doubt played in and played out as we waited. I didn’t want you to know that I already knew. I had seen one last detail in the flick of your hair, before I had spoken, that this was most assuredly, you. I tried to play this down, scared what you may think as I explained that I had a photograph of you, on my wall, in my home, right now.
The machine finished loading. I showed you. You said, “Yup, that’s me.” I expressed my amazement at this confirmation. You blushed, I blushed. I asked if I could take your photo, again, right now, you said, “Yes.” We walked over to a wall, you vanished behind a corner, tossed your hair to make it how you wanted and when you stepped right in front of me, I again pressed the forever button.
After this, I reached out my hand, I said, “Hello, I am Jonathan.” You took my hand, “Hello, I am R.”
It was the first time I touched you. Standing where we were, telling all those around us this story, I reached out and touched your shoulder with my finger. I did this four times. You looked at me, your eyes full of sparkle and laughed. I said, “I cannot believe you’re real.” You said, “I understand.”
Later, I asked if you happen to remember what you were doing that day, you said:
“…The only time I went to Santa Monica last August was to see a doctor.”
10:14:32 PM, Friday, June 7, 2013 – 5th Street & Main Street
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