June 8th, 1977

Another night rolls past. Hesitatingly it was spent alone. Me, my dog, and Uncle Willie my goldfish. And a few almost frightening ghosts from my past.

Last night I had a dinner engagement with Richard in his new Georgetown apartment. Strange evening that I kept needing and rejecting at the same time. Inevitably it led to bed. God knows I wanted to be in bed naked with him. How I longed to curl up fetally, the way we slept for years. But I did not want sex. I did not want the wet mouths and tongues and pressing urgency for sex. I wanted just to hold him close to me– just to be with him. I couldn’t force myself into the situation, so it ended in quiet disaster. Richard was hurt, rejected. We went to sleep curled up together like always. 

This morning, he tried again. Wanted to fuck me. I won’t. I freeze. He starts kissing my nipples– I jerk and say don’t. I roll onto my stomach and freeze. He starts kissing my back. Don’t! Oh Richard, I’m not relating to you sexually– and why not– and when did it start. And oh God leave me alone. But I love you, Dickie. And damnit, you’ve hurt me too many times. Is that what has finally happened? Is this inability to relate to you a result of all the trauma I’ve had with you? He told me on the phone tonight that he told Lynn that within a year he would have me again. That we would be married again. How that old bravura knocks me out and how I wish– oh how I wish– that I could make it come true.