Month: October 2012

Having spent more time in the company of women than men this past year, women of all sorts of ages, I’ve come to understand that the matter of can’t is irrelevant. Can’t bed them, can’t befriend them, can’t respect them? Can’t get them to be attracted to me, can’t get them to dig me as a friend, can’t get them to respect me? All of it’s as useful as an asshole right here. Some will, some won’t.

I was asked, recently, what I fear the most. I was with someone I’ll call a friend, sitting at lunch. She had a half-finished burger with no cheese and no fries on the side. I’d finished my meat loaf and fries. It had been a gray morning and I was up to socialization out of doors.

“An inconclusive life,” I told her.

“What do you mean?”

“Shh, man. You know. A life of confusion without resolution. All introductions and no conclusions. It scares the hell out of me. I’d rather it all turn out to be a bunch of endings.”

“That simple?”

I nodded coolly and allowed my gaze to wander to the lawn. “That simple.”

My thought was, God, I love women, and I hoped I meant it.

“I’m glad you came out to lunch,” she said.

“Sure. I need to get away from the desk more.”

“You really do.”

I’d presented a poem in class the week before that.

“It’s very sensual,” said my professor. “You know,” she added, as she often does, “they say the fruit is best when it has been ripened beyond its prime. A week or two. When it’s ripened for just a bit longer, it’s sweeter, and juicier, and it’s that juiciness that makes it worth the wait.”

Unsure of how to respond, I said, “Yes, I’ve heard that. I buy them often from stands on the highway.”

She smiled and nodded.

The decision, I’ve decided, must be made before any of this pondering and anxiety sets in. The decision is that I want to bed them all. The younger ones and the older ones. The shy little flowers (rarely as reluctant as the person they seem to be) and the bold sexual dynamite (often more subtle and nuanced than their demeanor implies). The ones who joke like sailors and the deadpan walls of ice and every good- and bad-natured woman in between. This simplicity makes it far easier to carry on, if you can believe it. The can’ts cease to matter. We’ll fuck or we won’t, and in the meantime we’ll carry on like clothed, civilized people while I imagine us in decidedly uncivilized embrace.

I often want to say “You’re fucking beautiful,” but I won’t say it to everyone. The power of the words is diminished, like saying “awesome!” after every good moment in life. It becomes meaningless. Actions, I’m told, are far more conclusive.

Having spent more time in the company of women than men this past year, women of all sorts of ages, I’ve come to understand that the matter of can’t is irrelevant. Can’t bed them, can’t befriend them, can’t respect them? Can’t get them to be attracted to me, can’t get them to dig me as a friend, can’t get them to respect me? All of it’s as useful as an asshole right here. Some will, some won’t.

I was asked, recently, what I fear the most. I was with someone I’ll call a friend, sitting at lunch. She had a half-finished burger with no cheese and no fries on the side. I’d finished my meat loaf and fries. It had been a gray morning and I was up to socialization out of doors.

“An inconclusive life,” I told her.

“What do you mean?”

“Shh, man. You know. A life of confusion without resolution. All introductions and no conclusions. It scares the hell out of me. I’d rather it all turn out to be a bunch of endings.”

“That simple?”

I nodded coolly and allowed my gaze to wander to the lawn. “That simple.”

My thought was, God, I love women, and I hoped I meant it.

“I’m glad you came out to lunch,” she said.

“Sure. I need to get away from the desk more.”

“You really do.”

I’d presented a poem in class the week before that.

“It’s very sensual,” said my professor. “You know,” she added, as she often does, “they say the fruit is best when it has been ripened beyond its prime. A week or two. When it’s ripened for just a bit longer, it’s sweeter, and juicier, and it’s that juiciness that makes it worth the wait.”

Unsure of how to respond, I said, “Yes, I’ve heard that. I buy them often from stands on the highway.”

She smiled and nodded.

The decision, I’ve decided, must be made before any of this pondering and anxiety sets in. The decision is that I want to bed them all. The younger ones and the older ones. The shy little flowers (rarely as reluctant as the person they seem to be) and the bold sexual dynamite (often more subtle and nuanced than their demeanor implies). The ones who joke like sailors and the deadpan walls of ice and every good- and bad-natured woman in between. This simplicity makes it far easier to carry on, if you can believe it. The can’ts cease to matter. We’ll fuck or we won’t, and in the meantime we’ll carry on like clothed, civilized people while I imagine us in decidedly uncivilized embrace.

I often want to say “You’re fucking beautiful,” but I won’t say it to everyone. The power of the words is diminished, like saying “awesome!” after every good moment in life. It becomes meaningless. Actions, I’m told, are far more conclusive.