I wonder if my literary friend looks like Alan Rickman now. It’s been many years, and he did have that potential. He was amazingly gay, in the classiest way possible. Meaning he was brilliant and deserved the highest respect without even considering him as a sexual, or even human, being. And that respect was ironclad and untouchable even if you found him passed out on a trail in the woods covered in nothing but glitter and dirt at 10am on a Tuesday.
If I say I love you, I want you to believe it. I don’t want to have to lie and say I love you in order to fuck you. You don’t have to lie and say that you love me in order to fuck me. You don’t have to lie to *yourself* and say that you love me in order to fuck me. But the fact that you would… that’s some damning praise, asshole. I want no part of that.