“Baby, do I look like a ‘butch’?”

“What?”

She really asked the question in title. Harmony and I were walking toward her work and she casually tossed that out, in concern. “Baby, do I look like a ‘butch’?”

“What? Who said you look like a ‘butch’?” I asked.

“Some ‘friends’ from Toa Alta.”

She put the correct emphasis on friends. What the hell kind of friends say that?

“Baby, you’re hot. You definitely don’t look like a ‘butch’.” I paused for a moment to let the point sink in. “You have been dressing slightly ’sporty spice’ as of late, though.”

To the last comment, Harmony got pretty defensive and tossed out a bunch of reasons why she was wearing comfortable sports bras and the like of the “sporty spice” look. All of which were great reasons. I don’t really care. I wasn’t insulting her; just pointing out a trend. I assured her that I wasn’t making anything of it and double assured her that she didn’t look like a “butch.”

She continued, “Besides, every time they saw me I was dressed hot but they still call me a lesbian and think that I’m a ‘butch’.”

I pondered it for a second. “…well I do think that if you were a lesbian, you would definitely be the ‘guy’.”

“What?!”

“What?” I said, defending my remark, shrugging my shoulders. “You’re just not all that fragile, or-” I was going for the word “dainty” before she interjected.

“I can be fragile! …and, and-” She was going for some synonym of “dainty” as well; I believe.

“Baby, stop. There’s nothing wrong with being strong and confident. I’m just pointing out what I think. I would probably swing both ways.” I said, referring to myself. “It’s hard to say. I’m a little ‘metro’ I suppose. Depends on the guy I guess…”

“I never want to have this conversation again.” She said, with a slight hint of remorse.

“What?” I replied. What?

 

Horrifying weight!

Harmony stood on the 50 cent scale, outside of a shopping store, staring at it with near tears of horror about to run down her elegant, flush cheeks. “Oh my God…” she said, hiding the printout from me so that I couldn’t see the weight.

“How much?”

“I’m not showing you! No…” She said, clenching the small receipt as if squeezing the mass out of it would have the same effect on her’s. The paper read *edited* (I’m smarter than that! Any girl would murder me if I really posted it!); Harmony weighs all of some minuscule weight that looks fantastic on women even though 89.7% of them hate it.

…then she ordered a pizza today. …and begged me to bake the brownies we have in the cabinet.

I swear, logic and women just don’t go together when you mix in chocolate, fudge, or convenience.

I can’t entertain gripes about weight when you’re ordering pizza and going for the cookie dough anytime a movie comes on! What’s really baffling is how guys are “assholes” when we break it down like that. Go figure.

“Mirra cariño; ingesting more calories than you can burn in a day results in excess energy stored in the form of ass, thighs, and love handles.”

…and then one day she’s going to figure it all out and “fill me in” on one of life’s secrets. Guys just have to be pros at making their girlfriends feel like they’re the coolest people on the planet. She’s damn close, so it’s not so hard. But, Jesus, either eat the brownies and be happy with a couple extra pounds on top of the nothing-heavy you were before or quit eating them and do something about it! I’m tired of kicking every mirror’s ass for you.

-Frustrated.

 

Of course I miss you! …who coughed?!

“Listen!” she said, assuming that I missed the first three times she said it. “I miss you.”

Harmony is staying at her mom’s tonight.

“I miss you too, baby.” Of course I do…

It’s one of those things you just sort of have to say. I don’t really get it, to tell you the truth. Of course I think about her and how great it is to pull her ass close into my hips while I’m falling asleep. But today, when I was reminding myself that I’ll have the apartment to myself tonight, I couldn’t help but think about that cold, refreshing (A/Cs fucking rock here in Puerto Rico!), master bedroom, queen-size bed, all to myself; to stretch and mangle however I please!

Is it wrong? Nobody minds a little time to themselves. But I miss you ;) No, no, take your time, baby. Tell your mom I said Hi.

In other news: My sex strike failed miserably. I’ve effectively decided that I’m weak; I’m guy. Beach, bikini, oversized board shorts, waves, palm trees. …her getting that frisky look in her eye. God, who wouldn’t fail miserably at keeping it in their pants! I’m only human!

And after all of two days or so of creating this secret blog, I left one of the WordPress drafts minimized on my desktop. Shit! It was titled “Sex strike… I’m weak!” So much for keeping the identity of this complaining asshole a huge secret.

“Did you see the new picture I put on the desktop?” I asked her, glancing at it before launching a web browser; talking to her on the phone.

“Yeah. I loved it!”

“It’s cool. I like that one.”

“About that actually…” She mused, over the phone.

“Ah, fuck!” I said, hardly taking an entire second for my reaction to give myself away. I changed the tone in my voice to something more cheery; a little naive. “What’s up? About what?”

“You know what I’m talking about, Frustrated.”

“…What?” I said, dragging the vowel out.

“Uh-huh… Listen, Frustrated…”

She used to read another blog of mine that was a little more visible; lots of people that I knew were reading it. (Including her.) This one will be far from that. It’s really more for me. …you can gauge that by the fact that I will frequently tell you, the reader, to fuck off in here.

I established my position. “Listen, Sweety. You don’t worry about my writings. They’re for me. …Only me.”

“Uh-huh…”

She’ll find this thing eventually. One day I’ll forget to clear Mozilla’s history… Plus she knows I’m up to something now. She’ll be looking for me to slip again. Not going to happen! And then she’s going to kick my ass when she finds it. I love you, darling. Take this into account when you find this miserable place ;) I will not bend, though!