That is it. That is just it. You have fucked with the wrong bitch, love. You are going down. If I did not happen to be so far away, I would be dropkicking your face. I'm a good boy, most of the time, it's true, but you dabble in the business of one of my comrades and a transformation occurs. Oscar-dear leaves the curls and velvet behind to don a pair of jackboots and brass knuckles. You TOUCH Aubrey again and I will have your head above the fireplace in my den; your blood will go wonderfully with the flocked wallpaper and Persian rugs. I am past intellectual banter and am screaming full-force into the realm of beastly fisticuffs. Come sir and try me. I dare you. I would be running for my life if I was in your little shoes, sweetie. There's a reason we're called the Fighting Irish, honey-bunch, and it isn't because of our famed marital spats. I'm a good bit heavier and taller than you are; my fist is bigger than the entirety of your dense cranium.
I hope you can feel the spit from my mouth emanating from the computer screen as you read each syllable. Enjoy the shower.
Hasn't Aubrey told you? I've already more than just 'touched' him, again, like I did before, and the time before that, and as I shall do over and over again. Now if you excuse me, Mr. Wilde, there's business to attend to.
Tell me Mr. Wilde, what sort of lies has Aubrey been spouting to you? That I'm such a terrible, wicked man, forcing this on him? I suppose he hasn't cared to fill you in on the fact that he enjoys my attention? And he does, Mr. Wilde. Very much.
I don't believe you. I am a good judge of character and emotion, "sir"; I spent a good deal of my life observing people and the people who others pretend to be. Misery and fear is evident in a man's eyes. Unmistakable, really. That sickly little glimmer is present in the boy's eyes, at the moment. If he was truly such an actor, by all means! I daresay I want him in my next play! The lead, please!
From what I hear, the whole situation was without consent. Do you want to know what's pathetic? Rape. I have romanced many into my bed, and I will openly admit it, at this point. Call me a slut, call me a whore, call me loose, call me whatever. But each and every one of them agreed and went willingly. I forced not a one.
Exquisite indeed. I apologize for being a cunt, by the by. Currently, I am having some "issues" (which the world will no doubt hear about in poem-form, sometime in the near future) and I happen to be extremely pissy and suspicious. I am reaching out and scratching anyone who gets close. It's not a good situation in the least, for either party.
Basically, the CliffNotes version is that I'm crabby, my thoughts are more-than-turbulent, and I need to be medicated.
He did tell me, o, did he tell me. If it makes you feel any better, I sat in a corner and cried for a time while eating biscottis sans coffee. Now I have heartburn fiercer than the fire that burns about Shiva.
It does make me feel better, quite. It doesn't surprise me, however. Of the two, I was more deserving, and that -is- such a shame, Mr. Wilde, considering your reputation. Then again, Aubrey and I have a connection that you could not possibly comprehend. It's only right that we should be together. I hope you aren't so heartbroken over it as to drown yourself in toffees or something as ridiculous. Oh, and by the way, I will ask you to stop bothering him in the next fifteen minutes. We have matters to discuss.
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