We were in bed half-clothed
with our legs locked together.
My face
was burried in
your shoulder notch,
while you skimmed
your fingertips
through the hairs
on the back of
my head.
I pulled away
to look at you,
tears start welling up
in the folds of
my eyes.
Your hand
raised, waving
back and forth
in front of
my face,
saying,
"No! Wait!, not yet."
before it wipes a tear
from of the corner of
my eye.
The tear
smeared on the outside of
your index finger.
Then you picked up a tube of mascara
off the bed stand,
and started applying it to
my eyes/eyelashes.
I didn't object.
Or try to stop you.
I just let it happen
because it seemed like
you knew what you
were doing.
"Boys/men don't know how
to cry because thevy've been
told not to their entire lives
because they're supposed
to be tough.
So fucking tough.
Even though you're
all a bunch of pussies,
yourself included."
You finished the last streak,
and kissed me on the forehead.
"Beautiful. You're ready to go
whenever you feel like it.
Your physical appearance
has to match
your inner appearance,
which is why
you have to look like a fucking mess
when you cry."
So I did.
I looked like a fucking mess.
Black watery lines started crisscrossing
across my cheeks down to my chin.
You drew abstract images with them.
I instanstly believed what you had to say
and felt better;
I didn't need a mirror
to see recovery.
"I should do your make-up more often.
I mean you have a lot to learn,
and I have a lot to teach.
Once you get this down,
we can move on to dresses,
lingerie, shoes, accessorizing,
and how to protect yourself from getting robbed
by kicking your assailent in the balls.
Plus, it'd be hot if we both made out in real glossy lipstick.
Hahaha"
We laughed, hugged, kissed,
and then i woke up in my bedroom alone
900 miles away from you
wondering if I am developing crossdressing tendencies.
"I'm sorry for being a shithead for the past week. I love you. And yeah, I'm in serious need of a makeover. How's Thursday sound?"
Nigga, blog.
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