I couldn’t write a sonnet. I was definitely no Shakespeare, but for some insane reason, the girl of my dreams was convinced I was some kind of romantic poet-like, sensitive-type. I guess playing along with it hadn’t been the smartest move on my part. I should have been straight and upfront from the very beginning.
“Look, I just want to fuck you,” I should have said. But then something had happened.
I’d fallen in love and now, I didn’t know what to do next.
I wanted to be romantic. I really did. It’s just it wasn’t something I was used to and I wasn’t quite sure where to start. I had planned this fantastic first date, consisting of a candlelit dinner followed by a walk along the pier in our hometown where we lived.
But now… Was I supposed to go one up? I had no idea. I really didn’t.
It didn’t help either that I was more into sports and had spent more time around men than women. I didn’t know how women thought, but I definitely knew how men thought. I think that’s what scared me. I knew what men were like; hell, I knew what I was like. But caring… caring and wanting to fuck her brains out. Shit, I didn’t know how to do that. It was a balancing act and the longer it continued, the more I found myself caring.
I couldn’t think anymore for today though. I’d had enough. I needed to go throw a ball around with my friends and try not to think too much.
A jock who thought too much, cared for his girlfriend and who’d recently discovered he was in love.
What kind of man was I turning into?