Stand Down Margaret

She did not know any rap music of the day, no DJ Chose? he said her name on the song. I think I said that too much. I cannot believe I told her I was a Trump supporter. That got her heated.

She scared me, mainly because my hairstyle did not plead my case in this cozy French restaurant I had invited her to.

Old white couples in their 70s who seemed like active milkers from European farmlands looked at me, terrified, from the corner of their eyes. Our date was reminiscent of that scene in the movie, The Saint.

In it, Val Kilmer charms his way into some fire Aryan pussy by asserting an impressive knowledge of french wines and flashing a wad of cash arrogantly in the Waitstaff's face. Thereby letting him know he is with the shits.

I did a little of both. Like Val Kilmer’s date, Lisa ended up in my apartment butt naked -saying she loves the way I fuck her. Whatever that means. A lot of girls say that. I guess it is a thing. Like 'Daddy', lots of girls say that. She did not.

It was interesting copulating with a former Poly but ever non conforming genderless they. They told me They would rather be called Liss, a name They believe to be gender-neutral. They liked my point of view. I was really stuck on her frustrations in many same-sex relationships. As she describes it, they were naturally burdened with taking on the male role. For me, that went against the whole point of being genderless. Why did you still have to pick a gender role? What does the male role entail? Does it all just come down to who wears the strap-on? They laughed at the latter question responding with a 'No'. I sensed They were disappointed in my question they obviously wanted me to wait a little longer in the date before mentioning the word Strap-on, the elephant in the room.

They tells me it is mostly about initiating sex.

They is impressed with the quality of marijuana I offer her, to which I comment “I only smoke the best”. They is also impressed by my natural cockiness. Her vagina was all the way back up her ass. I panicked. Did she formerly own a penis? Was it pulled all the way to the anus and split in half to create a vagina as i had heard from drunken beer drinkers in TransAmadi. I couldn't even locate her clit with my tongue. I eventually did. I feared to look stupid, like those guys who swear they eat pussy but can’t find a clit from a zit. She was a juice box even though her G spot had been sandpapered by sex toys. I could feel the poor thing reminiscing of better days as my finger made a come like gesture on its dull surface. We used a condom at first, then we did not. I thought I had finally found my best friend as I manifested on my tinder bio.

"Today was hard, but I am hanging in there and am finding joy in the little things. Shout out to the people who have been there for me. Con mucho Amor *purple heart emoji*. "

This caption appeared below her Instagram post a few days later. That was when I knew She was struggling with underlying things. Had my energy rubbed off wrong on her? Brought her bad luck? Everything seemed perfect when she left. She was en route on a road trip to San Jacinto with her favorite sister. This post was two days after our magical encounter, two days after I had met her FUPA. I still remember how it happened, she asked me what kind of girls I liked, "THICK" is as simple as I could put it. I then drew closer to her and gently rubbed her *belly-waist* I couldn't find the right rhythm so I continued changing motions until she cautioned me and immediately Tequila lost its grip on my sexual urges.

I was concerned and worried about the caption and I wanted to show it. So I got this idea to cheer her up and offer hope at the same time. I pulled up a Kahlil Gibran book we are all too familiar with and went through the chapters hoping to find something inspiring but nothing seemed to fit. It was all gibberish in confident words. Then I decide to tell her about all the trouble I'm going through looking for an appropriate quote and make light of the whole thing. She seemed grateful for it until I decided to follow up with a probe at the real problem. She shut me off. She didn't care to share or even overshare with me, She acknowledged my good intentions but it wasn't what she wanted. I had to accept that.

Over the next couple of days, with the heartbreak still fresh in my heart, I unconsciously began to see the beauty in Mexican culture. My radio was tuned to a Hispanic frequency when a dreamy song came on. It made me wanna be on the beach with her, her bikini panties sagging behind because there was not enough derriere flesh to fill them up. We were walking hand in hand and hand in Margherita, our third partner could even be behind us if you like. The soundtrack keeps going...

Y la hice llorar y la hice sufrir

Y la hice recordar

Que yo amé otro amor

Un amor sin control

Que a mi vida trastornó

Un amor sin medidas

I didn't understand the lyrics but the song seemed so sad yet hopeful, like the message I had hoped to pass to her. It captured my emotions perfectly so I decided to google translate. I did and realized that it was They who made me cry and They who made me suffer.