love and lust

If I could choose between love and sex, I would definitely choose sex. Sex is easy. I know the feelings that are coursing through my veins, through my hot, sweaty body and dark twisted mind are feelings of arousal. I know I want to be fucked, and I know that when I am, it feels damn good. There is no mistaking those tingly tingles, that rushing rush, that exploding bomb that is my orgasm. I don't wonder if it might be something else, because it isn't. Its sex. Nice and easy.

Love though - that's a whole different ballgame. Love changes. It grows, fades, crashes and burns. Sometimes it rips through your heart and makes you hurt, and sometimes it feels like nothing. And sometimes love is actually lust, or a misguided crush, or a fear of being alone, and not love at all. Love can be deep and real and meaningful, or it can be a big fat trick of the mind.

It's easy to show someone that they turn you on. A look, a touch, a few words. But how do you show love? A cuddle? But I've cuddled complete strangers. A bunch of flowers? But I have bought flowers for friends in hospital. A candlelit dinner? But love - as far as I can work out - is not a plate of food and a bit of wax, and no matter how deeply I reach into myself, I can't make the connection at all.

I've just thrown away a dozen dead red roses, bought for me sometime in the not too distant past by the boyfriend. We'd had a/nother row. I'd shouted at him "You should have turned up on my doorstep with a bunch of flowers, you bastard!". And so that's what the bastard went and did.
I rolled my eyes, laughed, said "thank you", and put them in a vase which was bought specifically with this kind of stupid behaviour in mind. And then they sat on the kitchen work-top, and were promptly forgotten about. They've probably been dead for days, and I've only just noticed.
I have no idea why I even suggested that's what he should've done for whatever reason it was, because flowers just don't do anything for me, at all. Yeh, they're quite pretty, I suppose, but they don't make me go "ooh", or "aww, he must love me", or anything cute like that. They are over-priced plants, that die. What's romantic about that? Not that I want romance, anyway... it just makes me feel uncomfortable, and
Is it me? Am i missing an essential romance gene, or something? Is there something maddeningly beautiful about receiving flowers that I am incapable of experiencing, or is it really a pile of old cack?
Now, many see this as the attitude of a cold-hearted bitch. It knows how to love (I think) - it just isn't so sure about Mills and Boon.