I've always gotten what I wanted. From the proverbial silver spoon, to the monogrammed golf clubs, to the keys to the Bentley when I turned sixteen.

And they're all things I could choke on.

Straight down to the back of my throat and sticking there like peanut butter on the roof of a dog's mouth. Hard, cold, pointy, lumps of metal.

Like the braces I got when I was eleven. So I could have the dashing, perfect, prep school smile I have now.

If I think about it...most of the things that have actually touched me in my life have been cold. My grandfather's arthritic hands...my mother's lips "air-kissing" my cheek...the spoons and clubs and keys and braces.

I tell myself that's why I crave warmth now.

I analyze myself in the midst of conquests, calculating the depths of hot teenage mouths, and the stroke factor on hands, just like I would out on an 18 hole course.

I like kissing. I have a certain finesse. I know just when to tease, when to tongue, and when to take over.

And it's no coincidence that I conduct my public assignations against the Gellar-Gilmore lockers. It is the perfect place...maximum exposure, maximum opportunity for damage.

I like watching Rory look disgusted and annoyed.

I like watching Paris' face tighten like she's been slapped.

But, then again, Paris is always tight. Everything about her is tight. From her hair, pulled back from her face, to her expression, pinched and disapproving, to her clothes...pressed and prim and proper.

And her legs...tightly closed.

Although, I'm sure she'd open them if I gave her the smallest indication...if I just said one word.

She wants me.

I know she does.

But she's cold. Too cold. Frozen, I think.

She's not enough like me...not thawed enough to try.

I get what I want.

Who I want.

I snap my fingers and they come to me. Before class. After class. In the Bentley's backseat with legs spread and plaid skirt pushed up.

It doesn't matter who she is.

As long as she's warm.

But, really, it's not enough.

It's never enough.

For them...oh, I'm sure I'm quite the catch. My aforementioned smile is charming...my eyes are light and my hair is, too. I have just enough of the bad boy in me to make up for my impeccable breeding. And, most of all, I have prospects. Fair maidens at Chilton swoon more at the thought of a future corporate merger than artful words and even the prettiest of faces.

Both of which I also have.

But I'm not as sure about the prospects. Not really.

I get what I want.

I've always gotten what I wanted.

Until now.

Two things have happened.

Miss "Mary Mary Quite Contrary" Gilmore failed to swoon.

And I have no idea what I want besides that victory.

So, I'm choking.

I'm choking on something I can't even see.

It's not cold. It's not metal.

I think it's...I think it's *pride*.

God forbid.

March 11, 2001.