There were
times when
jealousy was an
issue, of course. Times when he
smiled so nicely at her, or
talked for hours to him, or
did wild favors for anybody, because that's how he is. And I used to
frown, or
pout, or
show some nipple--whatever it took to get him
back in my arms.
....where he
quickly grew stale, to my
shock and
terror. Even his
skin started to
feel like plastic to my
disturbed mind as he
rotted slowly in my lap,
dying like a man but not
living like one, not
being everything he could be--gasp--if it
weren't for me.
So I had to
let him out, had to bite the bullet and watch those
smiles, even when the women smiled back so damn
obviously; but I kept quiet. I spent
hours, days, even a few
months without him, knowing all the time that his
mind, my
favorite room in the world, was being used by
other people. It was like having
strangers sleep in your bed. But he
exploded with life from there, and the
smiles I recieved were a hundred times
sweeter recycled. The more he
asked to go out, the more I
let him, and the
happier and
more eagerly he came home.
My mother asked me one day
how I could stand
sharing him with anybody and everything that came along like that. I smiled. "I'm not sharing him," I
laughed. "I'm
showing him off."