MY NEW LOVER IS A QUIET MODEL

I did it because I felt very sad and lonely. Yes, I know I had my red marble, but I started to have some deep and mystic feelings and thoughts about the reasons which led me to leave my wonderful boyfriend and start a new life with a red marble. My red marble was good in bed, but, well... a red marble is very limited... poor imagination... null experimentation. He, the marble, was quite quiet, but it was ok (“I like you when you’re quiet, because you’re kind of distracted, and you hear me from the distance, and my voice doesn’t touch you” as Neruda would say). He was great at listening, but pretty bad at conversations. In fact, conversations didn’t exist in our relationship. So, we decided, by mutual agreement, to break up. “I have nothing to share with you; you have nothing to share with me”.
And here it comes my confession: I resorted to a web for singles to find a couple.

So sorry. I feel that I hit bottom, but I needet it and I did it. I didn’t konw exactly what I was looking for. The only thing I knew I wanted from a man was that he should be able to keep an interesting conversation about deep and mystic things, like the colour of the sea and the sky, or why people don’t accept that they’re insignificant, because the only great thing in the world is the world itself, and we’re not naturally part of the world because we invaded it; it can’t pass its magnificient status on us because we’re bad, we invaded the world when the world lived very paceful... we broke its peace. It won’t forgive us for that, and we won’t redeem... because we don’t have any other place to go. The thing is that I’ve found someone at that page.

I love him very much and he loves me very much, but I love him only when I feel lonely, and he loves me when he feels hot. Our love is not mutual “in time”; it’s parallel "in space": we love each other in the same direction, but in different levels. My family hates him. He’s a model. He’s also very quiet (“I like you when you’re quiet, because you’re kind of distracted, and you hear me from the distance, and my voice doesn’t touch you”... what else can I do?) My family says that he has a dirty look in his eyes... and he has bloodshot eyes.

I think he’s just sad.

MY BOYFRIEND FOR A RED MARBLE

Once, I had a boyfriend. He loved me very much and I love him very much. He was the perfect one. Intelligent, attentive,polite, loving, rich, positively thinking, hardworking, funny, supportive, handsome, creative, veeery nice... what else could I ask for? When I felt down, he cheered me up. When I didn’t know what to do, he helped me to chose the right direction. When I didn’t have money to pay my rent, he paid it for me and didn’t ask his money back. When I committed a crime or offense, he, who was a great lawyer, changed the escene of the crime and the proofs so that I could get away with it. Everyone trusted him. And everyone loved him. He did everything perfectly: in his job, in my bed, on the street, with the poor, with the old people and children, with his family and mine, with our friends, in the beach, in the discos and pubs (you can imagine how amazing he was on the dance floor!)... everywhere and with everyone he knew how to behave accordingly.
However, anything, and I mean ANYTHING, can’t be perfect for too long. Through the weeks, I found out that he had some little funny ways... or, let’s call a spade a spade: manias, disgusting and unbearable manias.

When he woke up, he used to go to the bathroom, look at himself in the mirrow and lick his reflected image with huge pleasure for five minutes.
- Why are you doing that? - I asked him once.
- I want to taste me. It’s a good way to start my day.

When we were in bed, just after an incredible session of wild, loving sex, he held himself tight for five minutes, with his eyes closed. He seemed to be in love with himself, rather than with me.
- Hey! I’m here! What are you doing? - I asked him once.
- I want to feel me. It’s a good way to start my day.
- But your day started 15 hours ago!
- You’re right, my darling, my working day started 15 hours ago. The time of the feeling, the love and the perfection in a more deep sense, has just started.

Everyday, he worked out for two hours. When he arrived home from the gym, he put his sweat in a jar and in the evening, while he was watching the sports, he took the jar, took the lid off, and smelt it deeply for five minutes.
- What are you doing?
- I want to smell me.
- That’s really disgusting!
- My sweat is part of me. If you don’t like it, you don’t like me. But I’m sure you love it,isn’t it?

When he help some lovely old lady to cross the road, or some kind old man to paint his fence, or when he looked after his little nephews and nieces, he pulled out one of their hairs, kept it and put it in a folder. And he had a room full of folders!
- This will remind me: You’re a great person, you help others.

The thing with the hair was sickly. He collected the remaining hairs in our bed after sex, or the hair I left in my comb and put them in an photo album, with the date and location.
- I love every inch of you, and I don’t want anything to be lost.

When he cut his nails, he put them in a big, pink box. He had loads of these pink boxes! He told me he had been collecting his own nails for years.
- You never know if you will need them again for anything.

I didn’t know what to do. He was so perfect! Except for those little things...
But there was a thing that I coulnd’t bear. I tried to convince him to stop doing it, but I couldn’t. I tried to convince myself that I wouldn’t find anyone better than him. A relationship needs tolerance, but I didn’t have enough of it with this. He left me because he thought I didn’t undersand him. I could stand their fetishim with the hear, even the thing with his sweat, but this was too much!! He collected the little ball of shit that he had between his toes. He put every single ball in a wonderful little box, those little box which are used to keep rings.
- Why? – I asked once.
- I don’t want anyone to use my dna to do strange genetic experiments.

One grey Monday morning, I met a man in the street. He told me he would give me ten millions pounds, if I gave him my boyfriend’s house’s keys.
- No way – I asked him.
- Ok. I buy you for ten millions pounds that handmade t-shirt you’re wearing. It’s handmade, right?
- Yes, it is. I designed it.
- It’s the most beautiful t-shirt I’ve ever seen in my life – he stared at me and I blused - and I think your creative work deserves that amount of money, although it may seem it isn’t enough. I hope it doesn’t offend you.
-Oh, no, not at all... I’m flattered...
- So...?
- Done.
- And... I change a red marble for your boyfriend.
- Done.


Now, I am rich. And I have a red marble.