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Need (Feuilly): October, 1830
Do any of the others ever want him as desperately as I do? Do they plead in that horrible voice, half-whimper and half-whisper, to feel him, to taste him, to do all those hundred shameful things? Sometimes it seems I am only sure of him when he is inside me. Surely he thinks only of me when I take him in my mouth, when I let him -- no, when I beg him to forget my old fears and my old hesitations and make love to me, and that, that is not the word. The word is 'inside,' for I want him within me, safe, far away from anyone else. He is gentle, still, always, though he does not always relish gentleness -- for I have seen the marks of their fingernails on his shoulders, though I said nothing. He keeps that in check for me, whether in deference to the injury that has healed or in belief that I would dislike it, I cannot say. I can think of nothing but him when his hands are on me, when his lips press against mine, so familiar and sweet. He must keep his head better than I do, for I am nothing like as overwhelming as he is. I could not be. I could drown in simple kisses for hours; when I am not welcome, the memory of his hands is enough to warm me past bearing. It is no better by day. I doubt he thought, when he opened his doors to me, how much it would affect me. He has been my dear friend, my lover, and I have called him brother for years, but never have I meant it so much as now. I have no family; he is my family. I am a fool to trust him so, perhaps, for if I should say it in an afternoon with the sun shining brightly off his curls, he would smile and laugh it away. He wants to be carefree and thoughtless, though he is truly neither. If I should whisper to him how much I care for him in the dark of a night when we lay close together, he would listen, then. Aimé would take it as his due, and perhaps even then he would forget the responsibility that comes with that love. I love him and I need him. But he does not need me. He is his own man, his own person, free to take whatever lover to bed that he desires of a night. He never lies awake, alone, missing me. He has his own family, and I am not a part of it; the sight of me brought a scowl to his parents' faces. He has other lovers, other friends. I lost my mistress for love of him, and though I have friends almost as dear as his, if we ever fought they would all take his side against mine. Without him I have only myself, and I am less now than I have ever felt before. I have changed for him; he is the same damnably charming, perfect man I fell in love with, years ago.
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