Loving Men-End of Artem

In true love, there is no desperation.

I am living in Paris. I am not vacationing in Paris. Albeit, I came to Paris to meet up with Artem. But he’d been delayed, he’d said. And then the delay became further delays: Friday, Monday, a month. It was then that I realized that there would be no reunion.

In desperation, I did unthinkable things. Things which fell outside any reasonable activity. I wired money. Money! I wired money to the financial scam of the world, South Africa. South Africa! Based solely on the request made via texts, or telephone calls. It wasn’t until late one night when my eyes shot open and I fully understood my degree of folly! Artem had said he’d been robbed, at gun point of all his possessions including his passport, financial documents, checks, deposit slips, South African Revenue Service tax payments. To show me his “true intent” he scanned his passport and a check he received from Steele Modeling Agency (a very reputable company, known worldwide). The check was of such a large denomination that I had to enlarge it on my screen and carefully count the zeroes. But having worked for years for families with very high net worth, I knew a thing or two about checks.

On every check, there are three pre printed numbers: Two at the bottom, and one at the top. The two at the bottom includes a routing number of the bank and an account number. The one at the top is the check number. Here’s the rub: I couldn’t identify the routing number, but the account number looked suspiciously odd: 12345678. And the check number sequence was 101.

We all have checking accounts. Has any bank ever given anyone, especially a company like Steele an account number which reads 12345678? And the check sequencing number? 101? 101 is the very first check in a batch.

But in my desperate love for him, I ignored my gut and wired money anyway.

I know now what a desperate, desperate fool I’d been. You see, I thought love was honest and trustworthy and lovely. But it’s not. It’s full of hatred and animosity and, I suppose, a great degree of distrust.

For two months, rather than feeling naked skin against naked skin; rather than feeling the whiskers of man burn my neck; rather than listening to the soft mews and purrs of my kisses landing on throats and chests and nipples, I’d been shouting my love at the precipice of an echo canyon, and patiently awaiting my own voice in return.

In true love, there is no desperation.

Ah, but in false love? There’s only the sound of your own folly.