Lindsay.

I feel bad that I haven’t had the opportunity to write more about Lindsay, though I’m not completely certain that my grasp of words can accurately describe her. And while it might be more attractive to me to sit here and write excuses for why I haven’t written more about her (always at work without a lot of time to write here, et cetera), I should probably just jump right in and justify myself by my actions.

She’s very pretty. You can see a picture on my Friendster list. She’s small and short, and even though she says I’m short, I can still see the top of her head. She has soft blond hair and a pale complexion that almost appears as if she has a thin layer of down running over her skin.

She’s highly affectionate, which I love. I enjoy getting kisses in public from her or being demanded kisses, as when she leaned on to the middle console of her truck yesterday and put her finger to her cheek in earnest expectation of a kiss, which I happily supplied. I also find sitting on the couch with her, her legs draped over mine, watching a movie and kissing one another’s cheeks or making out to be among the most comfortable positions one can find oneself in.

Sex is pleasurable and on a pleasingly frequent schedule.

And in the morning she tells me all the crazy stuff I did the night before in my sleep or, if I’m drunk, before I fell asleep.

I suppose my only worries are about whether or not I’m moving too fast for her, encroaching too far into her personal space too quickly. But when I asked her last night, it didn’t seem like a problem for her. Which is very good.

Because I like her a lot.

It’s an odd feeling for me, this attachment. It’s been a good four months since I even desired a regular girlfriend and, suddenly, I find myself in a very nice place. A place I’d like to remain for as long as possible.

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