Love Play and Other Things
I allow the ways in which you manipulate me and I feign not noticing that you do. These small things seem important to you. I gauge my willingness to allow them as quiet demonstrations of my love.

I oppose sometimes playfully things you want to do, and gain my secret joy as you overcome my feigned objections. This dance of love is good for me, and I imagine the same is similarly true for you; but why we need to is sometimes vague to me. Perhaps our love and relationship is the adult playground where we test our skills within the friendly confines, and the arms of we who love. Is this the way we continue to grow once coupled? If so, I am happy with the mock combat, lovingly feigned and received, and just perhaps, this is the play that keeps love fresh; and that is good wouldn't you say, or would you feign disagreement?

 Yet if my pain, too, is your pleasure, then, I will continence it although I know I shouldn't. If you in loving me, draw blood, I will wipe it clean, gauze and bandage it. If my pleasure is to allow you this abandonment from previous hurts you've endured, if this then is the price I must pay, then I am willing to expend that coin to see where all of this new love is going. I, too, have my secret price; you too, must pay for hurts from my secret past. And since you are next and closest now, you'll have to bare your heart, your chest, and take my blows; misdirected it's true , and rightly belonging to another who, now has receded to my receding past. Fair is fair: I must hurt for wrongs done you and versa vice; and simultaneously endure the test that love presents to all new couples; Wily past Hurts and Harms from previous lovers- putting new love to sometimes hurtful tests. Flail away we both do; true love at the other end will endure.

But does it? It could be that the Thunder in your eyes did not reach out and strike my Heart Full Force that day. It could be that your words did not wash me away to an ocean already full of tears. Maybe I did not fall down this deep well in my soul; maybe not; but I don't think so. I might have misunderstood you there in bed with her and not believe my own lying eyes; my ears might might have been faulty; she might be the illusion I feared, of you and I. But, I don't think so.

So now I have this deadly jar, brush and blush which applied,, is called make-up.
Such trepidation here; I dip with foundation, cream eyeliner, and brow trim place, my green contact lens; hair filled out with fall and curls, mouth plumped up with mystery, shot red paint, 24-hour guaranteed, and then my mirror gazes back to me--an altered me.
I've just a little push me up under-wire to lift and tuck, scents swirl around my head jasmine light to accent the night. My heels make me tall; my legs appear long, my smile is fixed with whiteners and straighteners. My dress is not low cut but low enough; marble red spaghetti straps, black bra and panties; hose full length, I am ready now to find an honest man of no pretense.

I know, I know. but understand these are my armaments. the tools of mating and marriage. If I don't they will and I be the one leafing through magazines at the grocery store looking for dating tips. Leave you not misunderstand some few may do without any help but by definition that's not you and I. You and I must inch along making it up.
So I have handed myself these challenges and if I win I preen; I hand myself these challenges and if I gain knowledge and experience I guess I gain; I hand myself still greater challenges and hope they don't ending up educating me to death; surviving then the worst of these, if lucky, I could be crippled for life but end up very very wise.
You know I'd rather skip the educated, crippled and dead part and also the physical decay and perhaps too skip birth itself and go straight to heaven in one piece one day, where God and I could discuss the Joys and the Dreads in the presence of the angels with delightful cherubic lads.
Thereby I gain immortality and never ever have to get dead again.
Humm...
All in all, I think my idea is best in many ways. But if you are reading this you are already alive having made your first mistake; that of having been born and probably depending on age very very wise.
Womb Return and Womb Pilgrimages are clearly out of fashion and since you've no transcript of your conversations with God, you have to, like I, stop complaining and make the best of this life on earth; and reconcile yourself to this: The Grand In-Between.