Leftovers, is something I truly hate. You know when a man is looking to “date” you, either after his divorce, or even shortly after his recent breakup. I don’t like casually filling in someone’s boring or routine box of empty space. Give me an extrasensory electromagnetic field of vortex attraction, which moves the ground below me, something that I can sink my teeth into with a salaciously hypnotic energy of touch and earth shattering conversations; where we talk about nothing common but focus on the art of life and the humanitarian aspects of our human relationships that we have with this world. Sex is inevitable when there is an attraction, but I believe in planting seeds for something to harvest. I am not an “eat and run” kinda’ girl.

And let’s veer on this diverse subject called ROMANCE: romance is far from my diary pages of “hey let’s go out to dinner or a movie and come back to my place to find you between my sheets” chapter. How standardly ordinary. Romance is all about the intrigue, the desire to want something and molding it within your mind in all angles to sculpt how things should be. How you dreamed them to be. Things in which you want to become real, all begin in an energy alignment of “ask, believe, and receive”; a fantasy of vibrant colors and illusions and a mystified state of connection. Source always delivers what you ask for.

When I was very young, I remember being flown to the top of a building in New York City. More than once, actually. Kind of like out of the over publicized 50 Shades frenzy, but far better, for it was not a fantasy yet reality. And in the apartment there were many rooms, but in one of his boutique rooms was a round table, set for 2 with French ivory linen draping to the floor, adorning the area set for dinner with regal china, Baccarat goblets of champagne and crystal water glasses. The meal was prepared by his private chef, who left the house after he served us the full courses. Yet, the most intriguing item placed on the table, besides the diamond earrings in a tied blue velvet box, (which I must admit, I lost along the way..) was a recent publication of a Harlequin romance novel. With a silk tiny gold ribbon, placed neatly inside a section saved. He read it to me, a few of the pages, before the 2nd course, and after the last. It was a story about how the female character was yearning to kiss her beloved for the first time. Lips pressed to anxious lips. Trying not for the heat of your breath to give away all of your hidden secrets. People should write about the act of kissing, for it is dearly an art which stands alone. The wanting to kiss someone but refraining from doing it, is a gift which many are unfortunately unaware of. So “dating” someone is not my cup of tea. Instead, I am into the satisfying circumference of oxygenated love; unfortunately a sensory of dopamine many men are not aligned with. Very few understand my rhythm of vocabulary, however, I have encountered a few who unequivocally have known exactly what I meant without my lips having to explain it. Dating … please.. next.

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