FACEBOOK NOTE
Monday, September 7 2015
5.13 AM Pacific Time
Attraction has got laws too—like a 'bitch' dog wants certain principles followed before she goes on hit and starts having intercourse anyhow. From my perspective, these are the major Laws of Attraction I picked up from experimenting with both love and sex.
1. Never ask a man for sex. Yes, you got me right. Men don't like it when women ask them for sex. They will pretend they have not heard what you said correctly, or switch the topic immediately, or tell you they aren't in the mood for that type of thing.
This is so unfair! When he wants to sneak his hand into your pants, he will expect you to furnish him with what he craves for at that particular moment. He will be like, "Baby, I really miss the last time we made love. You were incredibly great, you know? If you don't mind, honey, we can give it a second shot."
When you say, "Pie, I don't think tonight is the perfect time for that," he will growl at how so bad you are treating him, that he gives you everything you want, and yet you are conning him of his entitlement. Just imagine? In general, most guys get so annoyed, to the point where you even get tempted to believe that he will kill you for mouthing an unalterable, "No."
Tell him you want to make love, and he will ignore you like he has not heard what you said. "Baby, this is not the appropriate moment for that; I mean I am so tired that I need to rest without any slight disturbance." Is this a fair rule, ladies? He asks for sex and he gets it, but you are forbidden to ask for anything sexual, granted that he will not give it to you if you dare follow your guts?
2. Follow Whatever Stuff Your Man Brings Up—anything, so long it is him who has proposed it. Honestly, even we ladies wish our men did certain sexy stuff for us. Sadly, few women out there have the guts to tell their men what they exactly want.
Sex and love must never lead to slavery! Both man and woman should be free, communicating liberally without fear of how either party is going to react. If you want him to be doing A, B, C, D—tell him. It will increase your sex drive each time you see him doing that thing and make you orgasm twice faster and longer. That way, you both get to enjoy love and sex to the full.
You're not a robot, one that always has to be looked after and governed. Have creative fun and don't let anything curb you from living your fantasies.
If his ideas are not thrilling enough every time you have sex, why not bring into life your own methods and grind your teeth till you have made the best fruit of them? If you have anything breathtaking, don't be afraid to tear away its wrappings. Don't be, baby. The sky is limitless; they all the time say. Why then must he dictate limits on you?
****
I'm in trouble, uncertainty, and remorse at the same time. I fell in love with the wrong guy. What do I symbolize by describing him as 'the wrong guy'? I am going to make that clear—plain simple as natural, fresh water without filth or mud when it is running in a long, raw stream. I wish all of this didn't come about in the first place. If permitted solely one wish by God, I would turn down riches undreamed of; just to begin a neat and orderly page in my life.
Three days into college, I crashed into this handsome young man. He looked brave and shrewd; he was in flawless shape. From his uncluttered brown hair, down to his active feet, he was a marvel to stare at. Wherever he passed, girls would wheel their heads around to gaze at him, awed and filled with unutterable delight.
I didn't know he was watching me that particular night. I was taking my ease quietly on the library chair, when I rapidly checked around on random impulse, and noticed the fine-looking guy goggling in my direction. He was all smiles in self-assurance. I didn't have the stomach to do what he did. I just smiled back at him, shamefaced, and hurriedly stared away. Frankly, I was embarrassed with everything that had happened.
"Tyrone Emerson is my name. May I be acquainted with yours please?" He petitioned the second time we ran into each other inside the coffee bar overlooking my classroom. I was with my room mate, Julie Evans, or Mrs. De La Vega. She is thinner than me, with long, curly dark red hair.
"I'm Phoebe Jones, a first year undergraduate doing Criminology. What are you pursuing here at Wotton?" I am aware. Most men detest it when a woman asks them what they do for a living, or contemplate to do in the future. I had fine reasons for propounding this to him.
"I'm doing Economics, as in aspiring to become an economist. Like you, this is my first time being here." Julie had this searching look on her face. I'm not saying she had also been struck by the spell of infatuation over this nice-looking guy. We were seated just the two of us when he surfaced out of nowhere and sat down on the stool closest to me.
Tyrone and I became friendly with each other. To my flush of excitement, I realized he lodged in the structure facing mine. Mine was a girls' only hostel. His was a men's exclusively dwelling. Our compartments, or rooms, overlooked each other to make matters breathtaking. This was starting to appall me, truthfully. It was like circumstances were setting us together, like destiny knew that we were meant for each other. Possibly we were—that was the impression I was starting to get.
One premature evening, while I sat down not far away from my glassed wall, doing an Identity Theft assignment on my laptop, the telephone chimed, and I rushed to answer it, thinking it was mom who was calling. "Mom, how nice it is to hear back from you. I have been ringing your line more than the millionth time now. Up till this moment, you were not responding. What did I do to deserve this harsh treatment from you?"
"Phoebe, this is Tyrone. I'm not your mom, which you believe me to be. I have been watching you do your assignment on your apparatus—your Dell, I mean—from my flat here. I just wanted to alert you that you have attempted Questions 2 and 6 the incorrect way. Would you be bothered if I come over and lend you a helping hand?"
Honestly, that left me looted of any word. One: How had Tyrone come to have knowledge of my telephone number? In my eyes, he was a stranger. And I don't give contact details to foreigners I don't know inside out. How did he know it? He could be a spy, or he could be a thief. I have my faith pinned on Julie. She could never betray me on this, not even when presented with a big check interchangeable with piles and mountains of dollars.
Two, how did he know I was working on an assignment? Does he have Superman eyes—eyes that allow him to look fixedly at my window from far there and still be able to keep track of every small act I am undertaking? I could be downloading porn or sex-ting some alien guy I don't personally know on Twitter. I could be playing one of those erotic games where you have to peel off a woman her clothing, bit by bit. How come he is so positive that I am sweating on a goddamn assignment, and not browsing through an infinite list of YouTube videos?
Three, he sounds definitely convinced that my laptop is a Dell brand name. Ever since I arrived at this university, I have never carried it with me anywhere public. It stays inside my room throughout—day in and day out. I swear that Tyrone has never set a foot inside my flat. Is he attempting to show me that he is a magician?
Four, my assignment's problems could be numbered in any peculiar, funny order. Say from capital letters A to F or Roman numerals I to VI. In any sequence and a normal human being is not supposed to know, save for when he is working on a duplicate, or let me say twin, of my god-cursed assignment. In rage, I questioned him, "What does all of this signify? That you are a sorcerer—is that it? Are you making use of magic to snoop on me, Tyrone?"
