I knew from the very beginning that it would inevitably come to this. Watson is an intensely physical creature. His stunning and innate physicality has earned him lovers on multiple continents. I choose not to remember the exact number, for even though I almost cannot bring myself to touch him, the thought of another pawing at him like a kitten with a ball of unsuspecting string creates an emotional response in me that I would rather not identify...
This response is namely rage tinged with envy. It is irrational anger. He did not even know me then. In fact, we have not even been...in this particular arrangement for a month. All of these dalliances happened years before he had ever even heard my name, or considered moving into Baker Street. This knowledge should, in fact, comfort me as I have gathered, though I must admit I am sorely lacking in empirical data, that such proceedings can be quite painful if your parter is inexperienced and does not know what he is doing. Watson should know exactly what he is doing. This knowledge should hearten me, but I find that I cannot seem to manage to convince myself to be comforted by it.
I wish that the envy were misplaced as well, but it is not. For it seems that despite all of the genius attributed to my person, the one thing that comes most naturally to the rest of humanity completely illudes me. The one thing that men seem to spend most of their time contemplating, fantasizing, joking, speaking, and whispering about I cannot even plainly say. Where most men of my age are fully experienced I am at a complete loss. This passion, which motivates more criminals and can debase even the most unexpected of individuals is entirely foreign to me. I understand how it works and how it effects others, but nothing like what these irrational souls spoke of has ever plagued me.
As a child I was generally disinterested in forming attachments with my contemporaries. They bored me. I preferred the company of books. I am still largely this way. Outside of the crimes they commit or the art they make, the human race as a whole is fantastically overrated and entirely dull. I never saw much worth in most of them. I never sought them out, and I suppose hiding in libraries reading obscure books in languages others don't understand will not really improve your chances of engaging in trysts. Trysts were not necessary in order for me to achieve my goals, so I did not seek them out.
They liked gossip. I preferred Goethe. That did not leave us with much in common. I have only ever been interested in those who shared my interests. In an aesthetic sense I have, of course, found some of them quite beautiful. Some people are. However, someone a beautiful as the Venus de Milo with all of the natural intelligence of the rock from which she is made, will not be admired by me for overlong.
And yet, even the most moronic of them can still easily do what I never could. They can do without a thought what I had never even considered doing until approximately a week ago. I find myself genuinely terrified. What is that man doing to me?