Month: January 2012

In pondering why she remains in my thoughts above all others.

I wish I could say something sentimental, like I loved her, or miss her laugh, or wish I’d treated her more respectfully, but the truth is that since Bri and I stopped talking/messaging/being silent I’ve been with other women—all nice and attractive women who gave and could talk about themselves—and none of them has remained with me like this. It wasn’t the convenient lies of omission or the fact that someone else was better. Not anymore, anyway. I could say that the other women simply weren’t her, which is true, but also a misdirection. The core of the issue is so tired a notion that I still don’t want to accept it:

I didn’t fuck her.

To my mind it’s pathetic, having discussed it and had opportunities to be together that were never ceized. I wrote and said things that were no different from overly verbose sexting. Months of build-up and talk. Discussion of residing together in spite of my reticence. All said for each other’s benefit.

There was no final and expected release.

I let go of that initial frustration when I started seeing Kelly, but it wasn’t the satisfaction I demanded. I wanted Bri. There could be no substitute. And so it carries on with me into the winter, and spring, and onward. I can see myself continuing to seek out women like her who aren’t her. A spark of satisfaction and happiness, then a fade to disinterest and amicable partings. One after another. The dysfunction of trying to create an ending to our story through other women seems irrelevant. I am only a man with a high libido and a willingness to sacrifice emotional intimacy for sex that will never live up to my expectations.

In pondering why she remains in my thoughts above all others.

I wish I could say something sentimental, like I loved her, or miss her laugh, or wish I’d treated her more respectfully, but the truth is that since Bri and I stopped talking/messaging/being silent I’ve been with other women—all nice and attractive women who gave and could talk about themselves—and none of them has remained with me like this. It wasn’t the convenient lies of omission or the fact that someone else was better. Not anymore, anyway. I could say that the other women simply weren’t her, which is true, but also a misdirection. The core of the issue is so tired a notion that I still don’t want to accept it:

I didn’t fuck her.

To my mind it’s pathetic, having discussed it and had opportunities to be together that were never ceized. I wrote and said things that were no different from overly verbose sexting. Months of build-up and talk. Discussion of residing together in spite of my reticence. All said for each other’s benefit.

There was no final and expected release.

I let go of that initial frustration when I started seeing Kelly, but it wasn’t the satisfaction I demanded. I wanted Bri. There could be no substitute. And so it carries on with me into the winter, and spring, and onward. I can see myself continuing to seek out women like her who aren’t her. A spark of satisfaction and happiness, then a fade to disinterest and amicable partings. One after another. The dysfunction of trying to create an ending to our story through other women seems irrelevant. I am only a man with a high libido and a willingness to sacrifice emotional intimacy for sex that will never live up to my expectations.

It sometimes occurs to me that I’m doing too much. I’m trying to learn too many things before I master one of them, or I’m going to too many places too quickly, so much so that even the travel notes I keep lack a certain permanence and familiarity. Most of the friends I write of are friends of a particular hobby or people I get together with in passing. Even the careers I build are fast-tracked into a successful cycle of growth and expansion followed by contraction and resettlement. It doesn’t stop because I don’t stop. I miss out on the sense of acceptance and security that seems to help a lot of people get by.

But then, I think, but then there’s all the things I won’t do unless I get my ass in gear. I won’t get Kyoto miso soup in my moustache, or lounge in a hot spring in Reykjavík, or have a week-long affair in someone’s tent at the base of Mt. Everest. I won’t purchase and fly the Cessna I’ve been dreaming of since I was a kid.

If I’m honest, I can’t handle thinking of the things I didn’t get to do. I don’t let go of things so easily and, one way or another, they’ll each eat away at me, until I’m beyond bitterness and into something like defeat.

It bothers me, you know, to hear things like “I won’t hurt you,” because it reeks of crap. It reeks of the bullshit I used to spew when I heard about others’ tales of love and woe. It smacks of too much effort and not enough experience. It makes someone obvious and, frankly, bland. Too defensive and not enough trust in a person’s ability to observe and learn. You won’t hurt me? I won’t hurt you? There’s only one way to prove it, and it ain’t through some declaration of intent. Our words are best saved for our writing and the full communication of what the fuck’s going on with us.

The flaw here, near as I can tell at this point in life, is when you say you will hurt me, and I challenge you to try.

It bothers me, you know, to hear things like “I won’t hurt you,” because it reeks of crap. It reeks of the bullshit I used to spew when I heard about others’ tales of love and woe. It smacks of too much effort and not enough experience. It makes someone obvious and, frankly, bland. Too defensive and not enough trust in a person’s ability to observe and learn. You won’t hurt me? I won’t hurt you? There’s only one way to prove it, and it ain’t through some declaration of intent. Our words are best saved for our writing and the full communication of what the fuck’s going on with us.

The flaw here, near as I can tell at this point in life, is when you say you will hurt me, and I challenge you to try.

It sometimes occurs to me that I’m doing too much. I’m trying to learn too many things before I master one of them, or I’m going to too many places too quickly, so much so that even the travel notes I keep lack a certain permanence and familiarity. Most of the friends I write of are friends of a particular hobby or people I get together with in passing. Even the careers I build are fast-tracked into a successful cycle of growth and expansion followed by contraction and resettlement. It doesn’t stop because I don’t stop. I miss out on the sense of acceptance and security that seems to help a lot of people get by.

But then, I think, but then there’s all the things I won’t do unless I get my ass in gear. I won’t get Kyoto miso soup in my moustache, or lounge in a hot spring in Reykjavík, or have a week-long affair in someone’s tent at the base of Mt. Everest. I won’t purchase and fly the Cessna I’ve been dreaming of since I was a kid.

If I’m honest, I can’t handle thinking of the things I didn’t get to do. I don’t let go of things so easily and, one way or another, they’ll each eat away at me, until I’m beyond bitterness and into something like defeat.

Lie on the sand, wallow in mud. Examine worms and crabs. Scratch our backs against a tree. Lie on the rocks and bask in the sun. Float in a rock pool. Gut a fish and a rabbit. Make fire by the sea. Fuck slippery wet on a cliffside. Wet mouth and eager tongue. The taste of filthy fingers. Porous sweat skin rolling. Matted beard, matted scalp, matted rugs of cunt and cock. Crazy, closer, hungry, hotter, tooth and nail. Parted legs and gaping flesh. Wild eyes darting under burning lids. Heavy breathing and possessive petting. Burned flesh and bone. Eat with hands and dunk our filthy faces in the frigid sea.

Lie on the sand, wallow in mud. Examine worms and crabs. Scratch our backs against a tree. Lie on the rocks and bask in the sun. Float in a rock pool. Gut a fish and a rabbit. Make fire by the sea. Fuck slippery wet on a cliffside. Wet mouth and eager tongue. The taste of filthy fingers. Porous sweat skin rolling. Matted beard, matted scalp, matted rugs of cunt and cock. Crazy, closer, hungry, hotter, tooth and nail. Parted legs and gaping flesh. Wild eyes darting under burning lids. Heavy breathing and possessive petting. Burned flesh and bone. Eat with hands and dunk our filthy faces in the frigid sea.

When I’m listening to music on my phone I sometimes find a track that reminds me of her, or her, or her. I think of using my bare hand, loading that vibrator app while I hold the phone. Nothing penetratory. Over her underwear, a dress. Warm and sometimes moist. Similarly, sometimes her hand on me. Pretending to be surprised or not, it’s the scene. Varying tracks produce varying effects, to be honest. ‘I’ll Stop the World and Melt With You’ is mischievous. It leads me down to a teenage girl’s bedroom in her parents’ house when she should be studying for a History final. The jukebox staple ‘Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap’: the road trip staple dirty sex—emphasis on the filth and sweat—in a motel room. All tracks on ‘The Chronic’ take me to my old pick-up truck, unsteady breathing, and a pair of fantastically thick brown thighs. Cocorosie, Dresden Dolls, and Jack Off Jill really do a number on me. They get me thinking about how easy it is to bruise a fair-skinned girl. And ‘Nightcall’, well, by that point I’m ready to pull the headphones out and turn the damn thing off, because unless there’s a nice girl wearing a nice set of panties that are ready to be rolled off in anticipation of receiving my mouth into the soft bush between her legs waiting for me at the end of the line, I’m safer in silence.

Of all the realizations, there’s a big one: my ma is frightened and withdrawn. She cared for us plenty but gave less than two shits about others. Once, as she backed the family van out of the driveway, we saw someone lying on the sidewalk. She told us to ignore it and get in the van. We saw another neighbor coming to investigate as we drove away. It turned out to be a woman who visited from time to time and annoyed my mother. She was too polite to ask her not to visit.

Another time—still during childhood—we were driving in the Impala to visit an uncle. We were on Crenshaw and an old woman approached the car to ask for a ride. She claimed to be lost and appeared quite feeble. My pop agreed to help her and my ma visibly sulked as she squeezed into the bench seat. We drove from street to street searching for the woman’s home. She continually said the next block, the next block. We eventually stumbled across a convalescent hospital and an orderly who explained that the woman suffered from memory loss and had wandered away. We dropped her off and continued to the freeway. My pop encouraged this sort of altruism, but my ma did not want to be involved. She wanted us to keep to ourselves.

“Your mother is an ill-tempered woman,” explained my pop, in Spanish. “It’s difficult to talk to her. She shuts me out. Do you know what I think? Forget it. I go to my room and watch television.” He also spends time in the garage, but he does not see work as an attempt to escape.

I sometimes think that they’re bound for a divorce. It’s inevitable, it has to happen. But I dig deeper into their story and see that despite their stubbornness and bitterness, they compliment one another. My ma requires stability and security so that she isn’t overwhelmed by the outside world, and receives this from my father, who is always working and receives his own comfort from providing for those whom he cares about. In short, they’ve attained a working balance.

Hell, man. Isn’t that something? Just finding a way to fit into someone’s else’s life is difficult enough.