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Confessions of a Wanna be Player

I met her after a bitter, embattled break up.  I had the words, and she had the ears.  I preyed upon that vulnerability.  Like a cat, stalking the herd, carefully selecting the weakest and less resisting.  It was too easy; I merely took my own pain and reversed it.  I elevated and ascended my descensions.  She was beautiful, smart, well off and well rounded.  Who could ask for anything more...

Our conversations were cordial at first, never venturing into anything binding or committing, exchanging pleasantries and smiles  (if only she knew those smiles were that of a demon, instead of a saint).  I never made any first moves, never assumed and definitely never aggressed.  I let her maintain the control giving her the reins, stirring our union in the direction she chose. 

Always in support, always bandaging hope.   I knew exactly what I was doing.

It is an art (art of deception), to allow a woman control and yet still remain a strong male, supportive and yet combative to maintain masculinity.  It takes a certain assertion of balance, observation and intuition.   And at the time, I thought I was extremely gifted in all of these areas.  She fell hard, fast and complete.

Now, of course, most women at this point would say that she was either desperate or dumb.  However, let me assure you that she was neither.  She was merely in love with a projected imagery of her ideal man.  And, as we all know....  love out thinks, out smarts and out weighs all prospects of sensibility.  So to those that promote her flaws aloud, know, that we all know you validate them in private.  We all go through this, at least one point in our life.   Within a month, she was packed and moved out of her house, and into my small apartment.   And she could never be happier. 

My manipulation was masterfully executed.  (Executed not as carried out, but executed as put to death by order of authority.)  Stripping her of all fortifications and defenses.   And all the while, leading her into the wilderness of life naked and exposed.  Her secrets were my feasts of recreation.    Dining lavishly until full and discarding the remaining portions, as table scraps.  She laid the buffet of her life, upon my table of self-esteem, past failures and insecurities.  Glutton ferried it forward bursting my seams, until I found that revenges taste was not sweet with satisfaction, but wrenched with damnation of self (another canto of Dauntes). 

She supported me more than any being I happened across.   And in her realized every fantasy I imagined of romance and endearment.   Although my plan was conquest, I found myself carrying out the dreams of what I wanted in not only a woman, but also a relationship.    However, my fear of failures based upon the past, held fast my step.    I was never made to be a player, only a hurt man in pain.   It was safe for me to assume that role.   That way, if the relationship failed, I could stride away disguising my disappointment as a manly conquest of love and virtue. 

It was safe ...   

In retrospect, I realized that it was love that shied me away.  This love made me scared and uneasy.    It faulted my confidence that was based on pain.   Pain, had kept me distant from emotions.  I had lived with it so much; I knew not, that anything other than that existed.  Pain, gave me strength and perseverance.  It gave me courage and kept me company in the lonely hours.  I thought it to be my soul-mate, my partner for life.   I fooled myself into believing the cards, notes, candles, picnics etc, were only props staged for the next act.  However, deep inside I knew the warring thoughts of love.  I knew, but dared not accept it.   It was rejected and ejected at every turn. 

Until she left...

My pride was my persecution.  Now those same songs I once dedicated, now wells tears.  And the memories curse my heart in damnation. 

Aaaaaw... the memories...  

All etched on the clipboards of my past.

 Memories ...  They remember you and never leave, momentous of time, granted by fate.  She was the string that sewed my wounds of soul.  And at the time, I was so drugged with self-pity that it never came to mind.   But as "Prince" wrote... "Love isn't love, until it’s past".

Players only play upon their own fears.

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