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The truth is that I don’t mind sharing at all as long as I get attention. I guess that says a lot about my values.

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I can’t help but wonder if packing like this will get me a discount on moving my stuff.

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Later, he’ll be in to serenade you with that guitar. Because he is a romantic at heart, after all.

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I am of the belief that states your bed should be right up against your window.

Because reasons.

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Tell me I’m something beautiful. Something precious. Something you would never want to part with. Because, ironically, it’s the only way you’re really going to be able to share me.

It’s not that I want to imagine that the process of sharing, of lending me out, is painful to you. I want you to enjoy it. I want you to do it because it turns you on. Moreover, I want to do it because the way it turns you on also turns me on a lot. Not to mention the way it turns me on, well.

It’s just that somewhere in the midst of someone else’s hands moving over me as I respond to someone else’s words, I’ll start to lose a bit of myself and who I am when we play like this. And so to be told those things, it’s an anchor. It’s something I can attach myself to and steel myself for the next blow.