Walking off the plane, respectably drunk from first class, my hair pulled back and pinned high, my skirt hugging my legs, nothing underneath, my heels flexing my calves, old perverts fucking leering at me. My mind was on one thing, what he'd think of me, would he kiss me outside on the sidewalk: would he kiss me, would his tongue taste like coffee hiding whiskey, would he finger me in his car while we drove to his place? I wondered if I was insane being here like this. My time with him flashed through me in less than a second: I went ahead and contacted him through his website. I'd read all of his books, but I'd read a lot of books, I read for a living. But there was something about him, not just the way his words stared a hole through me, but something about him as a person. I wasn't sure what it was exactly, the photos of him online or the fact that when I contacted him under the pretense (how I hate that word) of who I was in the city, who I worked for, what I did in publishing, he replied like I wanted him to, humble yet arrogant, and respectfully declining my literary interest in him. He had his own money, had conceived a writing application last year, and it had blown up hugely, and there were enough savvy investors to erase his need for a publishing deal, which was too bad. But there was something vulnerable to the message, and when I called the number below his signature he was soft spoken, polite, and humorous. A month went on. A month. Constant texting, calling, photos. First the faces, then a shot of my tits, my ass, my fingers blocking an otherwise graphic shot of my sex. He sent me shots back, all of it: his chest, shoulders, cock, him out of the shower. It was the first time I'd sent a man anything like that, but I trusted him. In bed at night, I'd listen to him, ask him to read me something, and he finally did, and I'd masturbate to his voice, his words. For a man who wrote like him, he lived alone, confused by it, but something told me he needed distance. But it didn't stop me from flying out west and seeing him.

First flesh impression: He was a little heavier in person, especially in profile. He was taller than I'd imagined him, 6'1, big shoulders, tattoos down his arms, which I'd seen in the photos, but in person they were more prominent. I have one, on my shoulder blade, a black rabbit, a ghost rabbit from fiction that stirred me as a little girl, and when he first saw it in an early photo I'd sent him he immediately texted back, "Watership Down, that image haunted me throughout my childhood in the saddest and best ways. Good piece."

--From that point on, the first impression didn't matter, I was mad for him. And outside on the sidewalk, there at SeaTac, he pulled me into him and kissed me, ran a big hand over my ass, got me hotter than a teenager.

Back at his place, a smaller place than I'd imagined, we had two hours of the bar up the street in us, I met his famous dog, and then he and I were in bed fucking like prisoners. It was Friday, then it was Saturday night: pizza boxes everywhere, empty bottles of wine. Walking out of the shower, I passed his desk and chair and it just then occurred to me that it was where everything happened for him, and something gripped me. I had to leave the next morning. I had to leave and I panicked. Back in bed I asked him what he thought of me, where he saw us going in the future. His dog jumped on the bed and curled up and slept behind the back of my legs. I instantly fell in love with both of them. But he basically told me that I lived in the city and he lived two thousand miles west. He also said we'd just met, which was fair, but it hurt. It hurt because of the last four weeks of constant contact, of wanting, almost hurting for him, and it also occurred to me there that he probably had a few more like me waiting in the shadows. Looking into his eyes I could see that I was nothing special. I was another reader, a hot piece of ass that might grace a poem in some obscure, chickenshit way. The moment changed for me, it changed his writing, and it changed him. But feeling him next to me, his cock against my leg, his freakishly big and weird body sleeping, his dog snoring right in rhythm with him, it was clear that I had to be the last piece for him, the last "booty call" he'd need to have. I rolled off the bed and quietly kissed the air until his dog awoke and walked out. I gave him a little bone from the box on top the fridge, and grabbed the longest knife from the rack, closed the bedroom door and watched his silhouette sleeping, bathed in moonlight, a drunk and fat attempt at what was once my future in my heart. I held the knife and felt the whiskey move me closer quietly. I'd had enough men like him. He wasn't special, he played with words for a living, and I'd fallen for it. He'd live after I left, but he'd never be able to fuck another woman.

Love is what she needs.

She can get it from me

but I haven't told her yet.

She's weird I guess.

I can't stop staring,

Watching every awkward move.

Short and pale and strong, and always thinking.

Overthinking,

Always looking scared.

Scared someone will point something out,

A flaw,

Even a hair out of place.

Scared of what they'll say to her just to see what she'll do.

Cry,

Stutter,

Laugh,

Blush?

WHY DO THEY JUDGE HER?

Does she judge them too?

Yes.

Shy and quiet as a mouse.

She heard everything you said.

Beautifully vulgar, radiant with darkness. She's all that I long for, all that I need. To feel her warmth pouring out of her lifeless body as I hold it in my arms. To be the bringer of the end of her time. To have the satisfaction of destroying beauty; taking it away from the world just to make it a darker place. That is all that I long for, all that I need.

There she is. The brown-skinned beauty that walks down the street every morning and greets with a half-hearted smile. Her brown eyes stare down into my very soul and every night I dream of those brown eyes staring down my body to a place no other woman takes my heart. I’m addicted to her body. The way her hips sway in those pants she wears when she walks to school. Ah, I’m hypnotized. Sometimes I get on the same bus just to watch her put on her bright red lipstick and rub those ruby red lips together. She powders her face with eyeshadow and mascara. And she rests her hands in her pockets looking aimlessly out the window to the world where we should be walking together in. I love her. Why can’t I have her? Why does she fucking fight me? What does she love in those other people? She can’t get what I can give her from those other people. Why can’t she have me back? Those ruby red lips invade my dreams. I want my palms to rest on her sides. I want her all to myself.

I see her every day

Unable to stop staring

She is beautiful

But not in a way all can see

Her heart is big

She is too kind

She tries to show others

How happy she is when in reality you can see the sorrow in her eyes

Each laugh sound forced

Each smile is practiced

She is craving for love

You can tell

I can give her that love

The love she needs

I can give it all to her

Maybe one day I'll stop staring

Staring from behind the bushes

From hiding behind each corner

Maybe she'll notice me

Or maybe not

She's too over analytical

I only want him to feel loved. I want him to know I care. I want him to feel that he is worth unadulterated persistence and is worth being sought after. Why shouldn't he feel worthwhile as a human being, having a girl look after him and pursue him with a sense of urgency? What if he lets himself go? I have to do this in order to keep him sane. He won't live if I stop. He'll go downhill. His self-esteem will decrease. It's love. I can't stop, because if I stop - I stop loving. I am doing the right thing. I am doing him a favor.

It was love at first sight when I saw her... she was someone that I wanted to know more about and couldn't wait to get closer to. There was something in her eyes that said that she knew more than she let on; that she had a sparkle in her eye that she kept well hidden from others but I saw it. Like she only revealed it to me and me alone. She smiled and said, "Thank you" as she walked passed me. I guess you could say that was when I became obsessed with having to have her around me.

The more that I watched her and began to follow her around I became angry with the level of people that she hung around with. In my head I kept screaming, "Why doesn't she see through the fakeness that they give her? Doesn't she know that she deserves more than this?"

When she goes out with her so-called friends you can see their envy and dislike of her for getting more attention then they are. I keep asking myself, "Can't they tell that she's uncomfortable in this situation??? She doesn't like it when everyone looks at her wanting something more than lustful thoughts that she doesn't want to give them." I can see that she recoils every time she feels someone's lustful thoughts sent her way!!! They see her sex appeal, her voluptuous curvature of her body, men and women getting all hot and bothered by her and she hates it. When she smiles people only focus on the flirtation when all she is doing is being nice. But not me, I knew that she was just being nice to me when our eyes met and I could tell that she was grateful that I didn't try to hit on her.

I watch her daily going about her business; always trying to brighten up people's days with her warm smile. Rarely, is it reciprocated, but she continues to do so anyway. At work she wears more make-up than she'd like to but only to bring out her natural beauty. She doesn't need to beautify herself to make her outer appearance more attractive; her inner glow shines so much outwardly that other people's light pales in comparison; turning their light into a shadow.

Today I got brave and sent her orchids, her favorite flower, plus a romantic note that was signed anonymous that went over well. I secretly recorded her reaction on my phone so that I could re-live the moment whenever I wanted to. She lit up when she realized that they were for her- in that moment I could see that she was genuinely happy and felt loved. She cried tears of happiness which made my heart melt into mush. I was glad that I could make her happy so I continued to send them every two weeks, recording her reactions, for no other reason than to see her face light up.

No one sees her the way that I do... that even though she is smiling and cracking jokes all she wants to do is cry. That she feels the loneliest when she is surrounded by people that she calls her friends and they just use her for her beauty. I mean do any of those posers know anything about her??? She keeps her emotions to herself because no one cares about her feelings; even the man that she loves doesn't pay attention to her in that way. He treats her like she's just here to serve all of his needs, and not catering to hers. He doesn't deserve her and appreciate her the way that I can... I know that if she gave me the chance I would sweep her off of her feet and bathe her in the finest things... she wouldn't want for anything but me. That she would feel safe and secure in my arms and never want to leave them!!!

It isn't that she's a sad, sorrowful creature... no, not by a long shot! She is a beautiful woman in her deep feelings, vulnerability, and her innocence. Her attributes often overlooked because of the niceness of her personality. People daily treat her like a pushover; thinking that she won't get upset but in secret she does. Once I followed her home because it looked like she was having a hard day. She began to scream, yell and sing at the top of her lungs cursing all of the people in her life for being so horrible towards her. Her angry side was so beautiful in her rageful manner that I had to record her emotional outburst on my phone. I wanted to watch it over and over again to see just how much emotion she was filled with. After she calmed down she went to the bathroom to start the shower.

I took this twenty minute window of opportunity to let myself into her place with the spare key under her mat and looked around. All of the things here looked like they belonged to someone other than her (of course it was his) . I left a note for her in her pile of mail so that she knew that I felt her pain. I smelled her pillow so that I could remember her scent. After doing a complete walk-through of her place I noticed that she had no identity within her own place. Seeing this made me love her even more; knowing that most of her life she has been seen and not heard. But I see her... I see all of her; the things that she hides and keeps to herself. Every time I see her all I want to do is take her away from all of the people that cause her pain and shower her with tokens of love. There is such a purity in her energy that she needs to be protected. No, not locked up in a gilded cage like she was as a child, but in a place that she could call her own.

She dreams of a freedom that others don't allow her- to be herself around people that appreciate her for herself. Where people can see the true value of what she has to offer. Why can't others see that she needs someone who cares about the things that she doesn't say? Someone who sees the tears beyond her mask and wipes them away??? Since no one is stepping up to do that in her life, I'll become the person that she needs in her life; become the only person that she can rely on who truly understands her and what she needs. I will be the man that can take care of her- no one else knows her the way that I do...

Soon. Very soon. I'll end her misery and take her away from all of the ugly people who cannot see the beauty that is her- Any day now I'll make my move and she'll be mine...