Not them. I don't despise them; well, not for their beauty alone.Deep within the pit of my stomach there is a seething, gelatinous black mass. This is...where the tar babies live. They are the guardians of all the hurt, all the slights, all the malevolence I've suffered in my life. Real and imagined. Every time I've played Medusa to their Helen of Troy. Every eye that has flitted from me to her. Every conversation I've been gradually excluded from. All the haughty disdain that she, her, they have. His hair is a bushy-wiry sandy brown, and his friends call him, "Brillo." I can't get my mind to quit fantasizing about what I want to do to him whenever I look into his beautiful eyes. They are a dark blue-gray with a double row of eyelashes that any woman would love to have! When he talks to me, he always looks so intense, so sincere, so innocent and needy. He reminds me of a lost puppy that I just want to rescue and take home with me.Those eyes make me melt, but I can't let him know that. I. More

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