Confessions

puppet

I am Guinevere to her Lancelot, my Arthur does not know how true love is. I flopped down on the sofa, cushions and silk. Last week, Binky and I had flooded the
valley with champagne, all was sog. But still, our love was doomed. And so, be-feathered and jaded I slept and dreamed of a time when I dressed in gowns of velvet. But too soon, I was ripped back to a land of heart break, of Angel Delight, of SupaValue.

I laid down in the Graduate Memorial Building, upon one of the fat black couches within, to await my lady’s pleasure. I had a terrible thirst, and a dreadful hunger, and so sipped from my sheep’s bone flask, and shaved a little truffle unto a biscuit. Sated I arose, and cast my eye over the sorry spectacle about me. All is lost in this world, I thought, suddenly swooning for my days in the Orient, armies of servants and armies of soldiers, all ready to do my bidding. There is a great stillness and joy in the knowledge that a man is yours to the soul. I do not regret my time in Cambodia one jot. My Lancelot never arrived so I slinked back
to my ignorant Arthur.

I am the Juliette to her Romeo, for truly she doth rule my heart. I am lost without her, and will be til she is mine again. I stood all day, dressed carefully in grays and silks, just without the Arts Schools, resting my heels gently on the lawn. A cloud passed over and I was suddenly terribly aware of man’s mortality. Still,
I carefully await my darling, but she does not arrive. An afternoon spent carefully writing poetry in ones mind is not misspent, but I would have rather been wooing m’darling Romeo.

I am Cleopatra, to her Anthony. I await on my throne for her to attend me, for her to conquer my heart. Alas, I may as well have bathed in asp’s milk. I despair, and wonder if Binky has returned. I am Goliath to her David, she fires love like stones. I stand proud before her rooms, my bronze armour burnishing in the sun, ready for the fatal slingshot. It never arrives. Night comes, and my mind clouds over.

Our love is complete, but I cannot see her. I am escorted home by the porters, to Bovril and bed. I am alone in this world, for there can never be love. I am Tina Turner to her Ike, she doth abuse me so. Again I await her pleasure, singing my heart out, outside her window in New Square, so that she might sleep better, when who other than my erstwhile Arthur did appear at the window. In that instant I knew my heart shattered. I don’t need another hero. I am alone. I am PETA to her mink farm, for she is cruel for pleasures sake. No Venus in Furs am I, I splash gasoline through her door. I stand, alone and sated, watching the great candle of my passion illuminate the night. The porters arrive and offer compliments, a place to stay. Their apartments are sparse, the floor stone. I lie awake day dreaming of the beautiful flower I lit.

I am Annie Wilkes to his Paul Sheldon. Again, my heart swoons. He is all my eyes can see. He came to me whilst I was cleansing myself, soaping my back and capturing my heart. I swoon unto a chaise lounge, ruffling pillows, and slip into fancies of France and Italy, of the Grand Tour Binky and I under took. A porter informs me my stay will be considerable. I do not mind. You find love in the oddest of places. I am complete. He can never leave me.

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