I had flowers in one hand and candy with a Valentine's Day card in the other.
"Happy Valentine's Day, Princess," I said with a big smile as soon as she answered the door.
I handed her the white roses, Godiva chocolates, and her Valentine's Day card. I leaned in for my reward hoping to kiss her on the lips, but I kissed her on the cheek instead, when she rolled her eyes and turned her head before giving me a look of annoyed indifference. Had this been the first time she acted like this to me, I'd be hurt, but I've grown accustomed to her rude behavior. It all comes with my idolization of her. I must enjoy being treated like a dog to continue this futile charade.
As soon as I walked in her house, I knew there was something wrong. It was obvious by her melancholy mood. It was Saturday, her shopping day, and normally she's excited about showing me what she bought. I've never seen someone who has so many pair of shoes.
Oh, poor, pitiful Princess, more drama, no doubt. What else is new? Now what? What can possibly be wrong this time? Did she break a fingernail or did she gain a pound? Unfortunately, to listen to her bitch is the price I pay to remain in her company.
Only, I can't help myself. If I thought with my brain, I wouldn't know why I'm still friends with her. Unfortunately, I'm a guy and guys don't think with their brains. We think with our penises and she just has to flash me those baby blues, as well as any part of her bodacious body, to make me do anything.
With her in my life, with her as my special, albeit one-sided Valentine, I was excited about Valentine's Day and couldn't wait to give her the candy, flowers, and card I had bought. I paid extra for this beautiful bouquet. Only, her bitter mood not only promised to wilt the flowers but also promised to ruin my good mood and this special day. I never expected her to be in a bad mood on Valentine's Day. She's always loved this special day of love for lovers.
She was so transparent. So self-absorbed and so self-centered, it was always all about her. The fact that she was like that endeared her to me. I have no explanation. I only know that she makes me crazy with sexual excitement.
Notwithstanding my feelings for her, I was always amazed at the lengths she'd go to gratify herself. Only, she should have a problem. She'll never change. She'll always be high maintenance. Even though she made me feel that I was no more important to her than a fashion accessory or a pair of her shoes, I was still in love with her and have been in love with her for five, long, frustrating years.
I'm invisible to her. She doesn't hear me when I talk. She doesn't laugh at my jokes. Excited about her uninteresting day, she talks over me most times. She's so rude and I'm so abused. In the way that she looks and in the way that she acts, she could have been one of those models on that new reality television show produced by Ashton Kutcher and Tyra Banks, True Beauty.
She doesn't want me. In the way that I imagine I connect with her, she doesn't connect with me on that level or on any level that is not about her. It took me a while to realize that she only needs me when she needs a favor or has furniture to move. I know that now. So long as I don't steal any of her limelight, so long as I cater to her, she'll continue to like me, but only as a friend and she always makes sure she introduces me as that.
"This is my friend, Joe."
She never says this is my boyfriend, Joe. She never says this is Joe. If she introduced me as Joe, there might be some confusion with people thinking that I was her boyfriend. She makes sure there's no confusion by introducing me as her friend, Joe, dumb Joe the sucker, that's me, average Joe.
This is my lap dog, Joe, is how she should introduce me. Sit Joe. Stay. Roll over, Joe. Play dead. All I need to fit that role is a collar and leash. It may not be so bad to be her real lap dog if she disciplined me every now and then. I'd allow her to spank me, so long as I could kiss her feet, while looking up her short skirt, that is. I'd allow her to beat me, so long as she stripped me naked first.
I follow her around too much like a puppy with my cock hardening instead of my tail wagging and my tongue hanging hoping she'll take the hint and French kiss me. Her dog gets more affection and attention than I do. Logically it doesn't make sense that I continue this fruitless friendship when I know it will never go any further and I'll be the one hurt, but I can't help myself.
With love in my heart and lust in my head, I hunger for her and always leave her starved with the empty feelings of a hungry man who sees food, a banquet, through a window, but is never invited to eat. Never feeling full or satisfied, always I leave her presence frustrated. I don't know what it is, but there is something about her that makes me wild enough with desire to continue to play this lonely, lopsided, and convoluted game. I know I'm a jackass for still hanging around and still harboring the false hope that she'll see the light and want me, one day. She put the flowers, candy, and card down on the table in the reception hall by the front door and walked stiffly in her room. It was obvious by her body language and slow movements that her little world had come to an end. I stared after her mesmerized by the rhythmic movement of her hips. She has such a wonderful ass. Then, when she disappeared in her room, I cast a glance down at the Valentine's Day card with her name written in bold, Princess, remembering how much time I spent visiting three different card stores and browsing through hundreds of cards to find just the right one. Excited about it before, I just wanted to chuck it in the trash now, but I didn't.
It was a special Valentine's Day card, in which I poured out my heart by writing the love filled sentiment that I wanted her to read. I was nervous and I was excited. It was the first time that I had written something so revealing. I told her I loved her. I told her I wanted her. I told her that I needed her in my life. Gees, in hindsight, now that I think of it, I practically proposed to her.
The card was perfect, though. It had a photo of two kids dressed as adults holding hands and kissing. The kids reminded me of us when we were that age. She liked me then. She even confessed to her friend Carol that she had a crush on me, but I wasn't interested in girls back then. Besides, she looked much different then, than she does now. Skinny without curves, she had braces, pimples, and knobby knees. She wasn't so hot. Back then, all the girls thought I was cute. Not much taller then, than I am now. I'm not as cute as I once was.
She was my perceived Valentine and I imagined her reading my Valentine Card and being so touched by my romantic honesty that she'd kiss me, French kiss me, before stripping off our clothes to make passionate love and proclaiming our love for one another. It took me weeks to write, rewrite, and edit what I wrote before I copied it to the card in my best penmanship. Only, she didn't even open the card. She didn't read what I wrote. Oh, well, so much for that. I'm used to her brushing me aside and stepping on my feelings. Even if she read my sentiments of love and commitment, she'd laugh it off as a joke.
"Oh, Joe, you're such a clown. Oh, Joe, that's so funny what you wrote."
Always, it makes me feel better buying her a card and pretending that she's mine. At least I'm able to live out my fantasy in the card store. Pretending that she's my girlfriend closes the empty hole that I have in my heart, a wound that she reopens and pours salt in, as soon as she's mean to me by ignoring me or saying something insensitive to hurt my feelings.
Nonetheless, roaming the aisles of the card store, I actually feel as if she's my girlfriend. It's amazing the extremes that those who love unrequitedly will go through just to remain in contact with the one they adore. I'd be the best boyfriend she ever had, if only she'd give me the chance. I'm such a fool to continue to believe that she will.
