The Fling has become my Saturday day release lover. It may be a problem his conditioned reflex is to lie and I don’t. For example, he said he was a Leo. If I’m interestd in what he’s saying is true, I assay his words. I didn’t bother with Leo. I wouldn’t. Leo, shmeo – who would? Until he changed it to Aries with a pantomime along the lines, ‘Who’d want to be an Aries?’ accompanied by finger gestures suggestive of horns either side his head. In my usual epistle in response to his usual love letter, I wrote he’d lied, that I’d never have known he had because who but him would lie about that.
I can’t send these epistles to him in prison because he won’t vouchsafe his number, so he read that one at table over a salad I’d put out for him while I cooked. He interrupted my cooking to claim he hadn’t lied. In saying he was a Leo he’d been being humorous. How? I didn’t get the joke. That I wasn’t accepting he’d been humorous frustrated him. Despite my writing that in having me believe what wasn’t true, he was making a fool of me, he was compounding one lie with another, to make me an even bigger fool, rather than have me believe he’d lied, though I’d also asked why he should care what somebody he was making a fool of thought.
You can see how in the lightest, most humorous way, I play with him. I can’t expect him after fifty years living in rank bad faith and enjoying it to be truthful. I don’t. I don’t even think it advisable. Everybody except me lies. I have to tell the truth. If I didn’t have the means to let me do that, I would be lying too. You need all the social advantage you can get and lying’s de rigueur for him and for you.