Not Sleeping Alone

I'm not sleeping alone.

You wouldn't expect me to. Hot property like me, and yes, I'm still hot even if I'm not a blazing superstar like I used to be. Same goes for you, by the way. You know I don't have any problem finding someone to share my bed. You'd be amazed if I wasn't sleeping with someone. Anyone.

You really would. You wouldn't believe it if I told you. Not that I'd tell you, even if it were true, because I'm not that stupid and I don't want to be the one you laugh at. You would, of course. You'd laugh at the very idea that I might not want the parade of pretty people in my bedroom, the slinky, uninhibited women and the smooth, eager men, and all of them beautiful and available and all of them wanting me. And none of them you. You'd laugh at the idea that it might be easier to say yes, to take them home, take them to bed and try to lose myself in the rush and sweat and tangle of sex, and forget that I can't have what I want.

If I thought it would make a difference to you, I'd stop.

I would. I could, though you wouldn't believe it. Sometimes it would be easier not to look, not to find, just to accept what I can't have, except that it isn't easy, it's hard, it's too hard. I don't want what I can get, what comes so easily, snap of the fingers, anything you say, JC. I could live without that, and I would, if it would make any difference to you. But it wouldn't. You'd still be with him, and you wouldn't believe it anyway.

They don't stay, you know. You wouldn't expect them to stay, would you? A few minutes, a few hours of pleasure and oblivion, of believing that it doesn't matter for this moment, this instant, and then they go. So, not sleeping with anyone in my bed. Just the one in my head who won't get out and leave me alone, and won't stay. Just you.

I'm not sleeping alone.

I'm not sleeping at all.