Somehow a huge swatch of text matter evaporated from a previous posting, in which I dictated most of the text whilst walking past an ex’s house, patrol-like, as I do virtually every single day. She is no love lost. Just a woman I’d be happy to hook up with again.

We first connected this way, I marching past her house dozens, even hundreds of times, waiting for our paths to cross as she entered or exited the building. It finally happened. She saw me, pointed, said “YOU! I know you!”

Until that moment I felt like a creeper at times, ruminating on how my pursuit of her utilized the tools of the predator.  Predators don’t stake out or stalk their prey. They make themselves available to their prey, inculcating themselves into the everyday patterns of life, befriending friends and family. They don’t skulk around playgrounds or hide in shrubs waiting to pounce.

We had no mutual friends and she had no family in the area. With no one to befriend or connect with as a pathway to her I did the predator thing as much as I could. I made myself available.

But who cares? My intentions were genuine and true. I wanted to get into her pants but what the hell is wrong with that? As it turned out she wanted to get into mine, too, and hoo-eee did she ever. All that transpired between us in that realm was consensual and joyful.

We had good growed-up fun, off and on for about 6 months. With memories of that in mind I now, after the ugly breakup of three years ago, continue to march past her house waiting to reconnect, to re-bone and re-fornicate. Time will tell if this pays off like it did last time. For all I know she does not even live at that house anymore.

We did, in fact, announce to each other that we wanted our connection to be lasting, to be a relationship. On that night, having bared our bodies, we bared even more. She played with my cock while describing her past. She had been a stripper and, briefly (or so she said) a sex worker. She did tricks for wealthy men and did nothing else for money for a couple of years.

I described my past experiences being investigated by the FBI and Secret Service for inter-state telecommunications fraud. She laughed that off.

Time would tell that she was not wholly truthful about her fuck-and-suck-and-tell that night. I picked up clues, usually when she was drunk enough to let go, that she still did tricks, still had johns. It would explain how she could afford to rent a 3-story house on a part-time social worker salary.

I tried not to care but it caught up to me. I had to get away from this woman. She did not object, blaming my drinking  for making us incompatible when she drank more than I and didn’t even weigh 100 pounds. Unlike me she got mean, cruel, and downright nasty when drinking. I just got horny. She blacked out nightly, and to this I bet she does not even remember how much sex we had.

I considered myself relationship-oriented back then. That’s not so true now, though one never knows where commitment awaits. After I finish typing these words I will stand up from this spot, march outside, and repeat yesterday’s ritual of walking past her house until we cross paths and reconnect.