She says I'm never on time. She says how could I not be on time and then complain about how little there is to do? But her clocks are fast.

There used to be things to do; I used to be with people and I used to enjoy myself. Now what do I do? Ask questions and relate facts and let rich old whores lean on me and fuck me and order me around. And sometimes I exaggerate, and sometimes I bend the rules and sometimes I embellish. All the time I act like a human. Humans are always pathetic, but sometimes they're beautiful. I've seen beautiful people, but I've never known any. There are some in whom I saw a flicker of beauty for an instant, but it was always gone when I looked back. I guess that's the nature of the thing.

Do I love her? Maybe. Once I told her ex-husband that he had better not come around anymore, that she didn't want to see him ever again. He tried to get past me; he was yelling and breaking things. I don't think he believed that his violence bothered her. I took care of him, though, and he didn't come back. Sometimes being a man is a disadvantage in a fight, especially against someone who is at all knowledgeable about the male anatomy. He called me a dyke on his way out, but only because there was nothing else he could do. When I told her what I'd done, she slapped me. I was just her lover -- he was the one who paid off her car out of the goodness of his heart. I guess she thought his expecting her to come back to him was because he loved her, too.

"You divorced him," I reminded her. She screamed and yelled and had me know that it had been a mistake. I figured that all the time she'd spent away from the hustle and bustle of his penthouse had really given her a chance to think more clearly. Of course she still had plenty of hustle and bustle in her own seaside villa, but a girl can never have too much of that sort of thing. I wouldn't know about any of it, and that's one reason she acts like she doesn't respect me. I'm not sure if she really does or not. I don't guess it matters why she does the things she does, though. She tried to slap me again, but this time I grabbed her arm. I have always been larger, stronger, thicker, heavier. Still proportionate, just more... butch. She likes to think that way so that she can forget I'm a woman and when it comes to that point she has me under spell; she could imagine me as a farm animal and I wouldn't care. My eyes were calm and penetrating and she started to see that I wasn't trying to cheat her out of her ex-husband's money. I know she was only pretending to believe that, anyway. She was really angry at me for being right and for being where she ultimately belongs. I still don't think she's quite accepted either of those two things, although the former idea seems to have taken better shape in her mind. I guess I can't blame her. She knew that she'd lost the upper hand and that the psychology behind her emotional lapse in control was obvious, but she had and still does have one thing on me that I can never beat. When I felt her hand on my thigh I knew I was gone. It wasn't a great battle to me the way it was to her, but I knew that she had me where she wanted me, regardless of whether or not I chose to struggle. It was the same victory as if I had wanted desperately to not want her, the way she did me. When it was all over, she cried. It wasn't our first time together, and so I knew it wasn't the same old anger and regret. She was so ashamed that I couldn't ask her why, so I just held her. She must have thought I loved her then. Usually when we make love she pretends that I do, even though she doesn't believe it. She is wrong, of course. Her power games are set up to protect her from my not loving her, but they just make it impossible for me give her the relief she's longing for. Her self-sabotage is sometimes beautiful, but only because it makes me love her more and it makes me want to show her my heart. But she never notices the subtle things.

Once, after we made love, she held me close and said,

"You're such a good lover -- why aren't you a man?" She sighed her satisfaction, completely relaxed in my arms.

"It wouldn't be the same."

"No, of course not. It would be better." She tilted her head back, tickling the inside of my wrist with her hair and showing me her white neck.

"You wouldn't want me." She sat up sharply, still relaxed and playful, but definitely in disagreement.

"Nonsense! Can I help it if men are lousy lovers? Edie, doll, you know I adore you, and I adore a great fuck, but I'm not like you." I could tell she was trying not to say it derogatorily, but she needn't have bothered. I know where she's coming from, no matter how much she thinks she has me fooled.

"You're not a lesbian?" If she wouldn't say it, I at least wanted her to have to hear it. She tensed in my arms, then, and I knew she was feeling self-conscious. She doesn't want to feel comfortable against me; she doesn't want to love me. I am finished trying to force her, but she isn't astute enough for subtle nudging. I do what I can. She forced a laugh, then, and I felt the space between us grow up again.

"Honey, do I look like a lesbian?" It surprised me that she could even bring herself to utter the l word, and I could tell that I had her on the edge of admitting to herself, if not to me, that I was right. I decided not to push. Instead, I went for a mood lightner which also allowed her gain some ground without losing face. A gift in disguise.

"What, I do?" She cackled, then, and warmed back up a little. This had been my ultimate goal, anyway, figuring that she could find herself on her own sometime. Perhaps I would be somewhere far away then, so she could miss me a little, too. Sometimes you have to be manipulative. Here she kissed me, hard, and laced her fingers with mine, my hands being the most masculine part of me, besides my hair and my figure. I rolled over on top of her, but she held me at arm's length.

"What?" my eyes asked her. She brushed my soft lips -- my soft, feminine lips -- then, with the tips of her gorgeous fingers, and I was touched so much more deeply than she realized. Than she realizes even now. Her eyes met mine, and I felt a sense of relief, of satisfaction. She could so seldom look me in the eye.

"Why do you do it? Why do you stay?" She was still beneath me, and I held myself up then.

"Because I love you," I didn't say.

"Because I want you to know who you are," I didn't tell her.

"Because you'll never find anyone else who understands," I didn't finally exclaim. I just swallowed and looked at her as if she hadn't said a word. She went on, more quietly then.

"Don't you want to be..." She bit her lip and whispered the end, ".. satisfied?" She whispered because, not only had she never offered me satisfaction, she probably didn't think that she could ever bring herself to provide it. I supposed she felt guilty.

"No," I lied.

She is no different now than she was then -- older, perhaps, and more resigned, but still abusive, still tortured, still sick -- and I am the same person (except, perhaps, for some missing energy) she picked up on a lark all those slaps and fucks, all that crying and screaming, all those tearful denials ago. Do I love her? Well I must, mustn't I?