Monday, July 14, 2008

what are YOU thinking about?

In talking on the phone to a boy who is outwardly infatuated with me nearly ever day on the phone, he often asks me what I am thinking about.

Now I am not sure exactly how this become the tradition, but every time he asks I respond with "something too naughty to say" or just silence which he knows what to take as. This could have became to be in several ways.
  • The first time he asked I wasn't particularly thinking of anything so I told him to guess. And he has a sick mind so his guess was naughty and I just went along with it.
  • I am actually the one with the sick mind and every time he asks I was already thinking about it anyway.
  • His asking me always triggers me to begin thinking about it if I hadn't already (especially with his new tone of voice as he asks from what he knows I have responded with in the past.)
  • My want to please him.
  • My want to freak him out.
  • My want to hear his nervous laughter which is by the way hilarious.
  • The possibility that i might want him to think those idea are not completely out of the question.
But I highly doubt any of those, it just kind of happened by chance and I don't see any reason to stop. It's not like I'm spelling anything out for him in the slightest. Just the occasional sexual elude, but what healthy conversation doesn't have a few of those, eh? He's completely inexperienced, wouldn't know where to begin anyway, let alone have the guts to actually ask me if I am thinking about sex or even making out directly. "Remember that thing you said that time before last? C'mon you remember, why did you say that?"Sometimes I honestly have no idea what he's talking about, but other times I play dumb to see how much of it he will repeat.

It's one of those things. I'm thinking it, you're thinking it, why can't either of us say it? I waiver between trying to make him think he is crazy or frustrate himself so much that he gives up and we can go on with the normal conversation about our lives and interests again.

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