I fell asleep after reading more of Story of O , and then I had a dream where I slapped T., with my fingernails sharpened into points like little carnivorous teeth. I could feel them digging into his cheek between the whisker hairs. I woke up immediately, with a feeling of yearning. It was 5:30 AM. Damn jet lag.

T. once told me, in a cafe, "You can do whatever you want to me." I told him, "You'll regret it."

The wikipedia article on Story of O shows a few of the intricacies and intrigues surrounding the publication of the book:

"Desclos said that she had written the novel as a series of love letters to her lover Jean Paulhan^[1], who had admired the work of the Marquis de Sade."

"The author uses a pen name, then later reveals herself under another pen name, before finally, prior to her death, revealing her true identity. Her lover Jean Paulhan writes the preface as if he doesn't know who wrote the book. The translator of the Ballentine edition (US) attributes her skillful translation to being a woman, but it turns out Sabine D'Estree is actually Richard Seaver.^[2]"

I could write more about my thoughts on the novel, but I'll save that for later.
****
Suddenly, I feel as though I understand why T. did not tell his mother about us. I wish I hadn't said anything to anyone in my family, either.

It"s not as though the words of anyone I spoke to have been particularly encouraging, but somehow the worst of it is the family's smug self-assurance that since he is my first boyfriend, it is going to come to an end--and soon. And now I feel as though there is much more riding on the survival of this relationship than just my emotions--my pride. I SAID we were serious, so now we must, be serious, and even marry, or I will have to eat shit.

I shouldn't have said anything.

My aunt's sarcasm. "Nothing romantic here."
My mother's condescention. "There will be many more." Pat -pat on the knee.
My father's panic: "But she says she wants to marry him!"
My grandmother's reaction: "She only thinks that way now." Wave of the hand.

Surely the best love affairs are carried out in secret.

It's not as if I don't think they're probably right, but somehow that perversely inspires me to declare that the relationship is cast-iron, we are thinking about marriage, I am moving to Japan, in fact I am picking my wedding dress out RIGHT NOW. It's all because of my wounded feeling that "They're not treating me like an adult!" I feel like a teenager. 

(Meanwhile he is still sending me the most generic emails possible. I think he's bad at writing emails. I also send him short generic emails because I'm afraid to take up too much of his time. I don't know if this means anything. I don't want to think that it means anything, and yet at the same time I want to try to show him more affection.)

To just add insult to lacerating injury. I showed my mother one of our pictures together from the airport, and her reaction was:

"Oh my God!"

"And you're such a pretty girl...Why does he have such BIG lips?"

I don't know why I have to sit here and LISTEN TO THIS NONSENSE

Just, just, never tell your parents anything. Ever. That's the new rule.