I have a dance partner and a lover.
One was born about the time I finished school and knows none of my silly music, life or film references.
She has an eternity of growing up to do, none of which I want to carry her through.
She is slim and petite but almost too much so for my carnal tastes.
She lacks the self assured sexuality I desire despite being able to turn on just enough to make the judges happy. Especially the dirty old ones that enjoy rolling their eyes over her naked navel.
Meanwhile I give myself to my lover, expose myself to hurt and disappointment. I give her a key to my house where she can seek refuge and live in my space for a weekend, explore and find out who I am with out my censorship.
Watch my porn, read my books, check under every rock and behind every closed door to see who I am. I feel naked and probed but content that I can be so open about who I am.
A thousand kilometers distant we pour months of hard work onto the dance floor and are rewarded with results exceeding our honest expectations. The one person I wanted to share it with is not there and she is told this again and again.
Yet all this trust and love is met with jealous accusations. Twice in two weeks now.
We do spend an insane amount of time in each others company, generally in a close embrace with our sweat, blood and tears mixing. We finish each others sentences like and old married couple and could get an Olympic medal for long jump when it comes to crossing the line in our private jokes.
Yet we go home to the ones we love, know that we are not connected that way and never will be.
I need her to understand that or it will all end.
In the interests of riding another techno fad wave face first into the shallow shore break of the internasty I have joined Twatter to find out what all the fuss is about.
