When I die
And the coroner cuts open my chest
There will be gravel embedded in my heart,
Tiny animal bones
Thorns and jagged bits of metal
All for you
Every scar for you.
When you die
Your heart will be opaque and reflective
Smooth and unruffled
Like polished stone
With no sign that I almost
Left a mark.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Hit me, baby, one more time.
I might have to burn this bra. It shouldn't have been the last straw, but it was.
Last night I couldn't get laid to save my life. I called my five regular guys, answered two ads on craigslist, and nothing. I was agitated. I was horny. I was alone.
Finally, I gave up and went to Safeway. A pint of Ben & Jerry's, a bottle of cheap wine, and cat toys. Doesn't get much more lonely single woman than that. The cashier said "I'm supposed to ask you if you're 21." I said, "I look it, don't I?" She chuckled and said "If I look it, you look it." She was at least ten years older than me.
I drank my wine, ate my ice cream, and watched TV until I could sleep.
This morning I was fine. Slept late, made Dessert Burgers with the kid, played with the cats, everything's fine.
No sign of any boy distraction, so I go over to Shane's. We watch a movie, get high, everything's fine. My chances are slim, but in the back of my mind there's a roaring desperation I don't even see, and I try anyway, lifting up my shirt to show him my pretty new bra.
"It looks like a Grandma bra," he says, but hey, you kinda look like a Grandma." My first thought is for my bra, pink and lacy and pin-tucked. My second is I'm thirty-fucking-five, you asshole, and I'm crying.
I lie in bed and I cry. He lies next to me and I cry. He pats the cat, "My Cosmo." He pats me, "my Jane." I know he doesn't mean it, never will.
"I'm not yours. Choking, wiping snot on my shirt, "You don't deserve me."
"I didn't know I had you." Stupidest fucking thing I've ever heard.
"You've always had me." I cry and cry and cry.
Eventually it comes to a shuddering halt. I grope my way out of bed and pull on my jeans, and head to the garage for a cigarette. Someone on the Art Bell show is talking about using expensive and exotic machinery to map the magnetic resonance of known UFO sites. I stare at the old printer box, with the idealized portrait of three All-American brothers. The younger two look like they could turn into bullies. The oldest, like you might have him for a night, but never more.
O smoke and I think about Shane. I thought he had already hurt me as much as he ever could, but I was wrong. I will leave him, I decide. One last night, holding him as tight as I can, loving him, forgiving him, then walk away for as long as it takes.
I go back to bed. He's up, on the computer. I lie in bed and wait. I think about what he could do to win me back, to make it better. It wouldn't take much. Put your arm around my waist, pull me close, and sigh. That's all it would take.
I wait.
I can't believe how long it's taking. If he cared at all, surely he'd be here. I hear the creaking of the chair, the bubbling of the bong, the long exhale. I know these sounds like my own heartbeat. Surely something will happen soon. I've been waiting so long.
I wait.
My nose is stuffed from crying. My mouth is dry. I can't sleep. I'm too nervous. I can't stand the suspense. I want to leave, but I feel paralyzed.
I can't stand it any more. I get up and go to the kitchen for water. I'm standing at the sink, drinking, when he comes up behind me and says, "Oh, hello." As if nothing had ever been wrong.
"What does that mean?" I say, trying not to let my voice quaver.
"I just thought you were in bed." I set down the glass, and soon I am.
I lie in bed. I wait. He comes in. I forget what we say. It isn't enough. He doesn't care.
He falls asleep, snoring lightly. Tears roll noiselessly out of my eyes. I get up, look at the bus schedule. I just missed the last one. I can't get home.
I go back to bed. I don't know what to do. I didn't think he could hurt me this much again. "Go to sleep," he says.
"I can't."
"Read," he says. I can't understand him. He repeats himself, exasperated.
"I can't," I say. I wait. Finally I say "You're not even going to give me a ride home, are you?" I can't stand it. I hate myself. I want to be home and cry for days.
"Why the fuck should I do that?" He's highly aggrieved. "It's the middle of the night. You live all the way across town. you came to spend the night, so spend the damn night."
I gather my strength. I get up, put on jeans and shoes and the now-hateful bra. I pack my books, steal a notebook. That which does not kill us gives us more shit to write about.
I walk. I get to the bus stop and smoke a cigarette. The bus won't come for another four hours. I walk.
Woodstock to Foster. Foster to Holgate. I want to lie down in the graveyard, soak the graves with my tears, but I'm not that far gone or that goth. I think about a cab, but I don't want to spend the money. I'll walk to the Tik-Tok, drink coffee 'till 5. I notice the cars going by, think about throwing myself in front of one. The thought shocks me. I'm not that bad. I want to live, more than I used to, even though I'm hurt real bad.
Holgate to Powell. It seems so long. I think I see the Tik-Tok, a mirage, then finally real. I sit in the bus shelter outside and smoke a cigarette. Leaving, I surprise a hooker. Or at least she looks like one. I am obscurely pleased that there are still hookers on 82nd.
I go inside. Coffee, water, and a shot of cheap whiskey. I drink. I write. Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'" comes on the radio and the tears roll out of my eyes. Fucking Journey, man. Gets me every time.
More coffee. Little cups of creamer. I down another shot of whiskey just after last call. Fucking Tri-Met, stops running before the bars close.
I drink. I write. I wait.
I go out back for a cigarette. starting to feel the booze now. I talk to a black stripper named Raven, and her new guy, Mike. She offers me a ride home, assures me she doesn't bite. Maybe, I say. Maybe.
Somehow I'll be ok.
I go back to my table. I drink coffee and read bout drugs I'm too scared to try. Raven and Mike leave without me, I'm not sure when. Probably better that way. My bus will start running in an hour and a half. I read. I wait.
It's five in the morning. I'm tired. I'm drunk. My heart is broken. I'm going home to sleep. To live through this.
Last night I couldn't get laid to save my life. I called my five regular guys, answered two ads on craigslist, and nothing. I was agitated. I was horny. I was alone.
Finally, I gave up and went to Safeway. A pint of Ben & Jerry's, a bottle of cheap wine, and cat toys. Doesn't get much more lonely single woman than that. The cashier said "I'm supposed to ask you if you're 21." I said, "I look it, don't I?" She chuckled and said "If I look it, you look it." She was at least ten years older than me.
I drank my wine, ate my ice cream, and watched TV until I could sleep.
This morning I was fine. Slept late, made Dessert Burgers with the kid, played with the cats, everything's fine.
No sign of any boy distraction, so I go over to Shane's. We watch a movie, get high, everything's fine. My chances are slim, but in the back of my mind there's a roaring desperation I don't even see, and I try anyway, lifting up my shirt to show him my pretty new bra.
"It looks like a Grandma bra," he says, but hey, you kinda look like a Grandma." My first thought is for my bra, pink and lacy and pin-tucked. My second is I'm thirty-fucking-five, you asshole, and I'm crying.
I lie in bed and I cry. He lies next to me and I cry. He pats the cat, "My Cosmo." He pats me, "my Jane." I know he doesn't mean it, never will.
"I'm not yours. Choking, wiping snot on my shirt, "You don't deserve me."
"I didn't know I had you." Stupidest fucking thing I've ever heard.
"You've always had me." I cry and cry and cry.
Eventually it comes to a shuddering halt. I grope my way out of bed and pull on my jeans, and head to the garage for a cigarette. Someone on the Art Bell show is talking about using expensive and exotic machinery to map the magnetic resonance of known UFO sites. I stare at the old printer box, with the idealized portrait of three All-American brothers. The younger two look like they could turn into bullies. The oldest, like you might have him for a night, but never more.
O smoke and I think about Shane. I thought he had already hurt me as much as he ever could, but I was wrong. I will leave him, I decide. One last night, holding him as tight as I can, loving him, forgiving him, then walk away for as long as it takes.
I go back to bed. He's up, on the computer. I lie in bed and wait. I think about what he could do to win me back, to make it better. It wouldn't take much. Put your arm around my waist, pull me close, and sigh. That's all it would take.
I wait.
I can't believe how long it's taking. If he cared at all, surely he'd be here. I hear the creaking of the chair, the bubbling of the bong, the long exhale. I know these sounds like my own heartbeat. Surely something will happen soon. I've been waiting so long.
I wait.
My nose is stuffed from crying. My mouth is dry. I can't sleep. I'm too nervous. I can't stand the suspense. I want to leave, but I feel paralyzed.
I can't stand it any more. I get up and go to the kitchen for water. I'm standing at the sink, drinking, when he comes up behind me and says, "Oh, hello." As if nothing had ever been wrong.
"What does that mean?" I say, trying not to let my voice quaver.
"I just thought you were in bed." I set down the glass, and soon I am.
I lie in bed. I wait. He comes in. I forget what we say. It isn't enough. He doesn't care.
He falls asleep, snoring lightly. Tears roll noiselessly out of my eyes. I get up, look at the bus schedule. I just missed the last one. I can't get home.
I go back to bed. I don't know what to do. I didn't think he could hurt me this much again. "Go to sleep," he says.
"I can't."
"Read," he says. I can't understand him. He repeats himself, exasperated.
"I can't," I say. I wait. Finally I say "You're not even going to give me a ride home, are you?" I can't stand it. I hate myself. I want to be home and cry for days.
"Why the fuck should I do that?" He's highly aggrieved. "It's the middle of the night. You live all the way across town. you came to spend the night, so spend the damn night."
I gather my strength. I get up, put on jeans and shoes and the now-hateful bra. I pack my books, steal a notebook. That which does not kill us gives us more shit to write about.
I walk. I get to the bus stop and smoke a cigarette. The bus won't come for another four hours. I walk.
Woodstock to Foster. Foster to Holgate. I want to lie down in the graveyard, soak the graves with my tears, but I'm not that far gone or that goth. I think about a cab, but I don't want to spend the money. I'll walk to the Tik-Tok, drink coffee 'till 5. I notice the cars going by, think about throwing myself in front of one. The thought shocks me. I'm not that bad. I want to live, more than I used to, even though I'm hurt real bad.
Holgate to Powell. It seems so long. I think I see the Tik-Tok, a mirage, then finally real. I sit in the bus shelter outside and smoke a cigarette. Leaving, I surprise a hooker. Or at least she looks like one. I am obscurely pleased that there are still hookers on 82nd.
I go inside. Coffee, water, and a shot of cheap whiskey. I drink. I write. Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'" comes on the radio and the tears roll out of my eyes. Fucking Journey, man. Gets me every time.
More coffee. Little cups of creamer. I down another shot of whiskey just after last call. Fucking Tri-Met, stops running before the bars close.
I drink. I write. I wait.
I go out back for a cigarette. starting to feel the booze now. I talk to a black stripper named Raven, and her new guy, Mike. She offers me a ride home, assures me she doesn't bite. Maybe, I say. Maybe.
Somehow I'll be ok.
I go back to my table. I drink coffee and read bout drugs I'm too scared to try. Raven and Mike leave without me, I'm not sure when. Probably better that way. My bus will start running in an hour and a half. I read. I wait.
It's five in the morning. I'm tired. I'm drunk. My heart is broken. I'm going home to sleep. To live through this.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Me vs. the Tigard PD
I stumble out of Joe's apartment and circle the building blearily until I find the right Max stop. I hate trying to navigate first thing in the morning. I have to remind myself that the people around me can't see into my head to know how stupid I am.
I get off the Max and run to catch the bus. Ridiculous, at my age. I am way too old for this shit, hitching up my waistband every few steps. How do the kids these days do it? Are there suspenders hidden under those baggy shirts? Andy Fucking Rooney, that's me.
There's a Willamette Week on the bus seat-- the headline reads, "To Catch a Stoner." Shit, better read that. Evidently, Tigard cops are placing ads on Craigslist, in Casual Encounters, my home turf, to catch men willing to trade weed for sex. They claim it's a widespread form of prostitution. What. The. Fuck. I am not a prostitute. I may have sold a pair of my panties for $20, but I have never sold my body. I keep reading.
The ads the Tigard detectives placed are, mercifully, very different from anything I've ever posted. Unlike the sting's fictitious hot blondes, I will not fuck just any random guy, no matter how much weed he's got. I think about last night, and how Joe sheepishly confessed he was out of weed. I didn't storm out. I shrugged and had another beer. Surely no one will accuse me of prostituting myself for two cans of PBR.
Here’s a thing about dating—in a normal relationship, I’m all for paying my own way. But for the casual sex thing, yeah, I do expect the guy to pay. Simply because no-strings dick is a glut on the market, and no-strings pussy is rare. There are so few areas of my life where being female is an asset, that I don’t feel too badly about taking advantage of this one. Don’t get me wrong-- I’m not a gold-digger. I’m just talking about a couple of drinks, maybe a sandwich, a few hits. I’m a cheap date, and unless you’re a creep, you’re pretty much guaranteed to get in my pants. I don’t think that’s unfair.
So people keep asking how I got into this whole thing. I mean, it is a little weird. Two years ago, I was an old married lady with a kid and a mortgage and everything. And then I fell in love. Boy, was that a mistake. Of course, it didn’t last, and that is how I found myself divorced and alone for the first time at 35. Not so much what you dream about when you’re a little girl.
I knew that there was no way I should be looking for another boyfriend, on account of I was having this whole Franny Glass-style nervous breakdown, what with the divorce, and the breakup, and all this other shit that isn’t even relevant. But on the other hand, no way did I want to be celibate. You know what they say about women over 35? Yeah. Totally true.
Sometimes it’s fun, meeting a new guy. You shave your legs all the way up. You put on a little more makeup than usual, make sure you’ve got good underwear. You sit at a table in a bar with a book, trying not to look around in an obvious, uncool manner. You fidget with your drink, smoke too many cigarettes, and wonder— how will this one be? You have a number of half-assed theories about what traits signal a good lover: one cat is good, two cats is bad…
The part that’s hard sometimes is that apart from the crazy, I really think I have a lot of admirable traits as a girlfriend. I don’t mind if you check out other girls— hell, I’ll check ‘em out with you. If you’ve had a really lousy week, I’ll buy you a dub and let you give it to me up the ass. I’m not going to complain about boy’s night out, or that you don’t want to go shoe shopping with me. I mean, in a lot of ways I’m pretty cool.
The problem is, I’m not really an adult yet. I mean, yeah, I’m 35, I was married for 15 years, I have a kid, bla bla y bla. But I’ve never had to be responsible for myself before. It’s ridiculous. And it sucks. I hate not being able to whine until someone else does the stupid shit I don’t want to do. Being a grownup is hard, y’all.
I get lonely. I get really, really lonely. Sometime the guys help, sometimes they don’t. The part I hate the most is the morning after, when I’m all bleary and needing coffee and trying to figure out how to get home and not sure if I want to see him again or if they want to see me…. It’s just hella awkward. It’s easier once you’ve seen a guy a few times and you know what to expect.
One thing that always surprises me about guys is how most of them really don’t tidy their apartments, even when they know that there’s a pretty good chance of having a girl over. I’m not complaining, mind you. I’m a slob myself. But dude, dirty socks and underwear on the floor? Not a big deal, but still. I don’t think you’ll catch most girls doing that. But Joe’s place isn’t bad. Beer cans are abundant, but hell, we’ve had a heat wave.
Age differences are weird. I’ve only gone five years older, but Joe is eleven years younger. As long as I’m not actually old enough to be his mother, that’s ok, right? Plus, you know, I’m emotionally immature. It’s weird to me that such a young guy would find me attractive, but I’m not complaining.
I notice guys checking me out more now. I was used to it, when I was young and thin, but it stopped when I was visibly pregnant. It started up again recently, all kinds of guys. Recently, a drunk guy at the bus stop hugged me and offered me two grand to have his baby. Thanks, but no. I look the same as I did five years ago, and no one was checking me out then. Maybe I’m giving off “do me” vibes or something.
I’m checking them out more too, for sure. When a movie starts, before the plot really gets going, I divide all the actors into “Yes” or “No.” I rate every man around me, especially if there’s several of them. I don’t know why it’s more fun to pick your favorite of several options than to rate just one, but it totally is.
Joe’s shoulders are thin, and endearingly freckled. He talks for hours, telling stories of smuggling huge quantities of Xanax from TJ to Anaheim, working as an outdoor vendor at Disneyland, how he went into banking out of an interest in microeconomics. This is not a guy I’d ever fall in love with. This is not a guy I’d ever marry. But tonight, for each other, we are good enough for now.
I get off the Max and run to catch the bus. Ridiculous, at my age. I am way too old for this shit, hitching up my waistband every few steps. How do the kids these days do it? Are there suspenders hidden under those baggy shirts? Andy Fucking Rooney, that's me.
There's a Willamette Week on the bus seat-- the headline reads, "To Catch a Stoner." Shit, better read that. Evidently, Tigard cops are placing ads on Craigslist, in Casual Encounters, my home turf, to catch men willing to trade weed for sex. They claim it's a widespread form of prostitution. What. The. Fuck. I am not a prostitute. I may have sold a pair of my panties for $20, but I have never sold my body. I keep reading.
The ads the Tigard detectives placed are, mercifully, very different from anything I've ever posted. Unlike the sting's fictitious hot blondes, I will not fuck just any random guy, no matter how much weed he's got. I think about last night, and how Joe sheepishly confessed he was out of weed. I didn't storm out. I shrugged and had another beer. Surely no one will accuse me of prostituting myself for two cans of PBR.
Here’s a thing about dating—in a normal relationship, I’m all for paying my own way. But for the casual sex thing, yeah, I do expect the guy to pay. Simply because no-strings dick is a glut on the market, and no-strings pussy is rare. There are so few areas of my life where being female is an asset, that I don’t feel too badly about taking advantage of this one. Don’t get me wrong-- I’m not a gold-digger. I’m just talking about a couple of drinks, maybe a sandwich, a few hits. I’m a cheap date, and unless you’re a creep, you’re pretty much guaranteed to get in my pants. I don’t think that’s unfair.
So people keep asking how I got into this whole thing. I mean, it is a little weird. Two years ago, I was an old married lady with a kid and a mortgage and everything. And then I fell in love. Boy, was that a mistake. Of course, it didn’t last, and that is how I found myself divorced and alone for the first time at 35. Not so much what you dream about when you’re a little girl.
I knew that there was no way I should be looking for another boyfriend, on account of I was having this whole Franny Glass-style nervous breakdown, what with the divorce, and the breakup, and all this other shit that isn’t even relevant. But on the other hand, no way did I want to be celibate. You know what they say about women over 35? Yeah. Totally true.
Sometimes it’s fun, meeting a new guy. You shave your legs all the way up. You put on a little more makeup than usual, make sure you’ve got good underwear. You sit at a table in a bar with a book, trying not to look around in an obvious, uncool manner. You fidget with your drink, smoke too many cigarettes, and wonder— how will this one be? You have a number of half-assed theories about what traits signal a good lover: one cat is good, two cats is bad…
The part that’s hard sometimes is that apart from the crazy, I really think I have a lot of admirable traits as a girlfriend. I don’t mind if you check out other girls— hell, I’ll check ‘em out with you. If you’ve had a really lousy week, I’ll buy you a dub and let you give it to me up the ass. I’m not going to complain about boy’s night out, or that you don’t want to go shoe shopping with me. I mean, in a lot of ways I’m pretty cool.
The problem is, I’m not really an adult yet. I mean, yeah, I’m 35, I was married for 15 years, I have a kid, bla bla y bla. But I’ve never had to be responsible for myself before. It’s ridiculous. And it sucks. I hate not being able to whine until someone else does the stupid shit I don’t want to do. Being a grownup is hard, y’all.
I get lonely. I get really, really lonely. Sometime the guys help, sometimes they don’t. The part I hate the most is the morning after, when I’m all bleary and needing coffee and trying to figure out how to get home and not sure if I want to see him again or if they want to see me…. It’s just hella awkward. It’s easier once you’ve seen a guy a few times and you know what to expect.
One thing that always surprises me about guys is how most of them really don’t tidy their apartments, even when they know that there’s a pretty good chance of having a girl over. I’m not complaining, mind you. I’m a slob myself. But dude, dirty socks and underwear on the floor? Not a big deal, but still. I don’t think you’ll catch most girls doing that. But Joe’s place isn’t bad. Beer cans are abundant, but hell, we’ve had a heat wave.
Age differences are weird. I’ve only gone five years older, but Joe is eleven years younger. As long as I’m not actually old enough to be his mother, that’s ok, right? Plus, you know, I’m emotionally immature. It’s weird to me that such a young guy would find me attractive, but I’m not complaining.
I notice guys checking me out more now. I was used to it, when I was young and thin, but it stopped when I was visibly pregnant. It started up again recently, all kinds of guys. Recently, a drunk guy at the bus stop hugged me and offered me two grand to have his baby. Thanks, but no. I look the same as I did five years ago, and no one was checking me out then. Maybe I’m giving off “do me” vibes or something.
I’m checking them out more too, for sure. When a movie starts, before the plot really gets going, I divide all the actors into “Yes” or “No.” I rate every man around me, especially if there’s several of them. I don’t know why it’s more fun to pick your favorite of several options than to rate just one, but it totally is.
Joe’s shoulders are thin, and endearingly freckled. He talks for hours, telling stories of smuggling huge quantities of Xanax from TJ to Anaheim, working as an outdoor vendor at Disneyland, how he went into banking out of an interest in microeconomics. This is not a guy I’d ever fall in love with. This is not a guy I’d ever marry. But tonight, for each other, we are good enough for now.
Monday, August 3, 2009
How To Be A Slut Like Me-- For Straight Girls
For whatever reason, you have come to a place in your life where you wish to have sex with a stranger. Congratulations. Most women will not have any trouble getting laid.
In the past, your best option probably would have been to pick someone up in a bar. Personally, I find this option a bit repellent. As an introvert, I am mistrustful of small talk. As someone who is past the first flush of youth, I do not like the odds. Newspaper ads, also a good option in the past, are more appealing to me in that people must present you with a nutshell character sketch. It is highly illuminating to see what people choose to reveal about themselves.
Since I do live in the modern world, the method I chose was the Internet—specifically Craigslist. I had previously found jobs, friends, and art supplies on Craigslist, why not a sex partner?
To proceed—you have two initial options: to respond to an ad that someone else has posted, or to place your own ad. There are, of course, advantages and disadvantages to both approaches. If you place your own ad, you will then receive all responses in your
email inbox, and can then pick and choose among them at your leisure.
If you place an ad, you will be immediately inundated with responses. Some of them will have ignored the parameters you’ve set out. Feel free to delete them. Many will include a picture of Mr. Happy. For me, that justifies automatic deletion. You may feel differently. I also screen for writing skills as a proxy for intelligence. Unfair? Perhaps. But if I don’t want to talk to a guy, I won’t want to fuck him, and the ones who can write generally can also talk. Once you’ve narrowed down your candidates according to your own preferences, you may start negotiating. (More on that later.)
Alternatively, you might choose to respond to someone else’s ad. Like the afore-mentioned newspaper ads, people will tell you a great deal about themselves in remarkably few words. Consider, for example, how the title “SUCK IT BITCH” gives a very different impression from “Do you feel like receiving a long, relaxing massage?” Both, of course, have their audiences. It is worth examining your immediate gut response to titles—you may discover an interest you didn’t know you had. Ad posters will generally give their age, as most of us do have a preference in this area.
Most also give a brief physical description, which is very useful if they are telling the truth. Often a picture is included. Again, these will often be of Mr. Happy. (If I may allow myself a judgmental parenthetical—it never ceases to amaze me how blatantly unflattering some of these pictures are. I appreciate being forewarned if your equipment is remarkably small, but do you really want to put it out there for the entire world to marvel at?) Or, they may include a head or torso shot. Or, there may be a more generic image of a sunset, a huge sticky bud, an example of the kind of woman they are looking for, or an illustration of activities they might wish to engage in.
Women posting ads do not include as many images. When women do include images of themselves, they tend to feature close-ups of scantily clad tits or asses. I have yet to see a genuine ad from a woman that included a picture of her “bits.” Women also may include images of desired activities or substances.
Once you have found an ad (or ads) that you wish to respond to, you must craft your opening email. Most people find it useful to have a “stock” statement ready to be adapted (or not) to individual ads. I like to comment on something about the ad that caught my eye, and then give a list of my attributes and habits that I know some people might object to: “I'm 35, 5’ and 130 lbs, a cigarette smoker who would like to quit, a
social drinker and 420 smoker with no plans to quit, a broke college student, can’t host, non-driving, and already seeing a small number of regular guys.” And conclude with “Still interested? Let’s talk.” I receive a response to this opening email about half the time.
One word to be aware of: discreet. (Often and unfortunately spelled “discrete.”) Many of the people seeking casual sex are married or otherwise attached. Whether or not this places them off-limits is, of course, up to your individual code of ethics. But if monogamy and honesty are important issues for you, you may wish to create a policy of whether or not you are comfortable being a party to an affair. Some advertisers make no secret of being married; even going so far as one ad I saw entitled “Sneak into my garage after my wife’s asleep!” Others may only tell you of their marriage the first time you meet, if ever. Often a potential partner is in a committed relationship, but with permission to seek outside partners. In this case, you need only consider how you feel about sharing your toys.
I cannot stress enough how important it is not to use your real name or primary email account until you are sure who is at the other end of your correspondence. Using a free web-based email with a fake name is an easy way to help protect yourself from being obsessively Googled and possibly even stalked. Crazy people are everywhere, and most especially on Craigslist.
You may or may not wish to include a picture with your reply. Most people do require a photo before meeting in person, but this is not universal. When selecting photos, you must keep in mind that any image you send may end up anywhere on the Internet. I suggest not sending anything that you would be ashamed to show to your grandmother. It is also important to choose pictures that portray you accurately. If you send a picture from five years and twenty pounds ago, your actual appearance is likely to be an unpleasant surprise, and that won’t be a nice situation for either of you. Naturally we all wish to present ourselves in the most flattering light, but honesty is more important.
Once you decide you're ready to meet a candidate, there are a number of steps you need to take to ensure your safety. Always arrange to meet in public. Although I am not usually a woo-woo sort of girl, I do firmly believe that people give off "vibes”, and that you should pay attention to your gut. If the man you meet makes you feel uneasy, even the tiniest bit, do not go anywhere with him.
I also strongly recommend that you keep a friend apprised of your whereabouts. Tell her who you are meeting and where, and call her again before you leave to let her know where you will be, and to set up a time when you will check in again. (It's also not a bad idea to have a code phrase you can use to signal that you are uncomfortable and may need help getting out of the situation.) If you decide to go home with the man (or take him home with you,) all you need to do is call your friend and be off.
If, however, you decide that this is not someone with whom you wish to pursue further acquaintance, it is best to say, simply and clearly, "I'm sorry, this isn't working for me." Do not allow yourself to be guilt-tripped-- this man is a stranger, and you do not owe him anything. If he shows any sign of anger or reluctance to leave, approach one of the staff members, explain that your blind date has gone sour, and stay within their sight until he is gone. Call your friend for backup or have someone escort you to your car. I do realize that this all sounds mortifying, but it is worth any amount of embarrassment to keep yourself safe.
(A quick aside on weapons-- it may be tempting to carry mace or a knife, but remember that anything you use as a weapon can also be taken from you and used against you. I am told, however, that a bottle of Visine squirted into his drink will leave your would-be attacker in severe distress within a half hour. Just so you know.)
But if the man seems decent, smells ok, doesn't set off any alarms etc., you may as well give him a try. Just make sure you take precautions and don't compromise. Even the best sex isn't worth risking your life.
Afterward, if it was lousy, leave as quickly as you gracefully can, saying brightly "Well, that was nice, see you around." Remember that you are under no obligation to see anyone again. Some duds may redeem themselves with a second chance, but frankly, most will not. If it really was nice, consider sticking around for more. When you do leave, say, “I’d love to see you again. You have my number, right?” Or, if you are a more forward sort of girl, make sure you get his. Not all men will want to see you more than once, but in my experience, most of them do.
So, now you’re well on your way to a distinguished sluthood. Just remember to watch your back, and have as much fun as you can.
In the past, your best option probably would have been to pick someone up in a bar. Personally, I find this option a bit repellent. As an introvert, I am mistrustful of small talk. As someone who is past the first flush of youth, I do not like the odds. Newspaper ads, also a good option in the past, are more appealing to me in that people must present you with a nutshell character sketch. It is highly illuminating to see what people choose to reveal about themselves.
Since I do live in the modern world, the method I chose was the Internet—specifically Craigslist. I had previously found jobs, friends, and art supplies on Craigslist, why not a sex partner?
To proceed—you have two initial options: to respond to an ad that someone else has posted, or to place your own ad. There are, of course, advantages and disadvantages to both approaches. If you place your own ad, you will then receive all responses in your
email inbox, and can then pick and choose among them at your leisure.
If you place an ad, you will be immediately inundated with responses. Some of them will have ignored the parameters you’ve set out. Feel free to delete them. Many will include a picture of Mr. Happy. For me, that justifies automatic deletion. You may feel differently. I also screen for writing skills as a proxy for intelligence. Unfair? Perhaps. But if I don’t want to talk to a guy, I won’t want to fuck him, and the ones who can write generally can also talk. Once you’ve narrowed down your candidates according to your own preferences, you may start negotiating. (More on that later.)
Alternatively, you might choose to respond to someone else’s ad. Like the afore-mentioned newspaper ads, people will tell you a great deal about themselves in remarkably few words. Consider, for example, how the title “SUCK IT BITCH” gives a very different impression from “Do you feel like receiving a long, relaxing massage?” Both, of course, have their audiences. It is worth examining your immediate gut response to titles—you may discover an interest you didn’t know you had. Ad posters will generally give their age, as most of us do have a preference in this area.
Most also give a brief physical description, which is very useful if they are telling the truth. Often a picture is included. Again, these will often be of Mr. Happy. (If I may allow myself a judgmental parenthetical—it never ceases to amaze me how blatantly unflattering some of these pictures are. I appreciate being forewarned if your equipment is remarkably small, but do you really want to put it out there for the entire world to marvel at?) Or, they may include a head or torso shot. Or, there may be a more generic image of a sunset, a huge sticky bud, an example of the kind of woman they are looking for, or an illustration of activities they might wish to engage in.
Women posting ads do not include as many images. When women do include images of themselves, they tend to feature close-ups of scantily clad tits or asses. I have yet to see a genuine ad from a woman that included a picture of her “bits.” Women also may include images of desired activities or substances.
Once you have found an ad (or ads) that you wish to respond to, you must craft your opening email. Most people find it useful to have a “stock” statement ready to be adapted (or not) to individual ads. I like to comment on something about the ad that caught my eye, and then give a list of my attributes and habits that I know some people might object to: “I'm 35, 5’ and 130 lbs, a cigarette smoker who would like to quit, a
social drinker and 420 smoker with no plans to quit, a broke college student, can’t host, non-driving, and already seeing a small number of regular guys.” And conclude with “Still interested? Let’s talk.” I receive a response to this opening email about half the time.
One word to be aware of: discreet. (Often and unfortunately spelled “discrete.”) Many of the people seeking casual sex are married or otherwise attached. Whether or not this places them off-limits is, of course, up to your individual code of ethics. But if monogamy and honesty are important issues for you, you may wish to create a policy of whether or not you are comfortable being a party to an affair. Some advertisers make no secret of being married; even going so far as one ad I saw entitled “Sneak into my garage after my wife’s asleep!” Others may only tell you of their marriage the first time you meet, if ever. Often a potential partner is in a committed relationship, but with permission to seek outside partners. In this case, you need only consider how you feel about sharing your toys.
I cannot stress enough how important it is not to use your real name or primary email account until you are sure who is at the other end of your correspondence. Using a free web-based email with a fake name is an easy way to help protect yourself from being obsessively Googled and possibly even stalked. Crazy people are everywhere, and most especially on Craigslist.
You may or may not wish to include a picture with your reply. Most people do require a photo before meeting in person, but this is not universal. When selecting photos, you must keep in mind that any image you send may end up anywhere on the Internet. I suggest not sending anything that you would be ashamed to show to your grandmother. It is also important to choose pictures that portray you accurately. If you send a picture from five years and twenty pounds ago, your actual appearance is likely to be an unpleasant surprise, and that won’t be a nice situation for either of you. Naturally we all wish to present ourselves in the most flattering light, but honesty is more important.
Once you decide you're ready to meet a candidate, there are a number of steps you need to take to ensure your safety. Always arrange to meet in public. Although I am not usually a woo-woo sort of girl, I do firmly believe that people give off "vibes”, and that you should pay attention to your gut. If the man you meet makes you feel uneasy, even the tiniest bit, do not go anywhere with him.
I also strongly recommend that you keep a friend apprised of your whereabouts. Tell her who you are meeting and where, and call her again before you leave to let her know where you will be, and to set up a time when you will check in again. (It's also not a bad idea to have a code phrase you can use to signal that you are uncomfortable and may need help getting out of the situation.) If you decide to go home with the man (or take him home with you,) all you need to do is call your friend and be off.
If, however, you decide that this is not someone with whom you wish to pursue further acquaintance, it is best to say, simply and clearly, "I'm sorry, this isn't working for me." Do not allow yourself to be guilt-tripped-- this man is a stranger, and you do not owe him anything. If he shows any sign of anger or reluctance to leave, approach one of the staff members, explain that your blind date has gone sour, and stay within their sight until he is gone. Call your friend for backup or have someone escort you to your car. I do realize that this all sounds mortifying, but it is worth any amount of embarrassment to keep yourself safe.
(A quick aside on weapons-- it may be tempting to carry mace or a knife, but remember that anything you use as a weapon can also be taken from you and used against you. I am told, however, that a bottle of Visine squirted into his drink will leave your would-be attacker in severe distress within a half hour. Just so you know.)
But if the man seems decent, smells ok, doesn't set off any alarms etc., you may as well give him a try. Just make sure you take precautions and don't compromise. Even the best sex isn't worth risking your life.
Afterward, if it was lousy, leave as quickly as you gracefully can, saying brightly "Well, that was nice, see you around." Remember that you are under no obligation to see anyone again. Some duds may redeem themselves with a second chance, but frankly, most will not. If it really was nice, consider sticking around for more. When you do leave, say, “I’d love to see you again. You have my number, right?” Or, if you are a more forward sort of girl, make sure you get his. Not all men will want to see you more than once, but in my experience, most of them do.
So, now you’re well on your way to a distinguished sluthood. Just remember to watch your back, and have as much fun as you can.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
The Gorilla Behind Me
I’m sitting on Jimmy’s porch, smoking a cigarette and listening to his story of a co-worker’s t-shirt featuring Mr. Snuffalupogus, Big Bird’s imaginary friend. “I had an imaginary bodyguard when I was a kid.” I say, and then realize what it must sound like. It sounds like I had a horrible childhood, full of God-knows-what dastardly abuse. “It’s not like that, “ I say to Jimmy, who has obviously been jolted out of his beer/weed/sex haze. “My childhood was fine!” I’m giggling now. “But I used to get so mad when he wouldn’t talk to me!” Jimmy is shaking his head in disbelief. “I’ve got to write about the gorilla,” I think. I spend the night with Jimmy. It is one night that I am not alone.
My bodyguard was a large, purple-furred gorilla. He was not cute and cuddly, but he was not scary either. He was business-like, a gorilla who could get things done. I take it for granted that his inspiration was the cartoon character Grape Ape, but I fear that if I google Grape Ape to confirm this, I will find my hazy memories of my bodyguard entirely remade in the cartoon’s image. I fear that Grape Ape might have sported a bowler hat—an indignity that my silent, stoic bodyguard would never have suffered.
I remember my bodyguard best in my father’s house, following behind me on the stairs at night. I was never afraid of the dark, but he was always there anyway, mute and
unmovable. He certainly was not there for my amusement; he refused to speak. But he was there, in the night, when I was alone.
I do not remember how old I was when my bodyguard appeared, nor do I remember how old I was when he finally failed to appear. For most of my life he has been reduced to an anecdote, a one-liner thrown out for laughs whenever the conversation turns to childhood imaginary friends. I do not remember when or why I needed him.
I can barely remember the questions I used to ask him—Who are you? Where did you come from? Why are you following me? I remember my frustration at his unwillingness or inability to answer me. I do not remember being calmed or comforted by his presence. I only remember my acceptance of the situation, tempered by a mild irritation.
I do not remember, was not capable of articulating, what my bodyguard was there to protect me from. I can guess, of course. To have the monolith of “my parents” split into two uncertain people, with previously sublimated needs and wants, raises spectres of loss, loneliness, passion, and struggle. New adults with their own selves and histories would come and go with little regard for the small girl who talked out the side of her mouth, like a bum with a stogie, and trailed an invisible gorilla behind her.
Now a divorced mother myself, I have a new invisible bodyguard. She is real this time—my friend Donna, a large, solid woman with a reckless love of power tools and has the truncated finger to prove it. She and her equally imposing girlfriend are the self-appointed watchdogs of my safety as I sow my long-delayed wild oats. Before I meet a new man, I call Donna to say where I am going and whom I will be with. Before I go home with him, I call her again to give her his address and arrange a time to call in the morning to report that I am still alive. We have a code question I will ask if I ever feel unsafe—an inquiry after one of her dogs is the signal for the avenging dykes to come to my rescue. So far, this has not been necessary.
What I feared as a child, I am living now. I have left the airless desperation of a dying marriage and barely survived the inevitable, unsuitable rebound man. I have gone home with the inexperienced but tenderhearted techie, the guitar player who made me scream like a banshee, the ex-Satanist who missed his ex-girlfriend, the lonely man with cats, the dude who owns more pairs of shoes than I do, the New Orleans hippie with paint peeling off his walls like a neglected fresco, the ex-army man now growing his goatee to his waist, the guy from Jersey with the little blind dog, and Jimmy, the scrawny kid from Kansas with crates full of vinyl. I am not afraid of men, or what they do, in the night, when we are alone.
The truth is that the only danger I face is that which blossoms within me. The neurotic tendencies I was born with, the anxiety and sorrow planted in my childhood, have bloomed into a chronic state of dread and self-loathing that informs every waking hour, often leaving me gasping for breath. The chaos and loneliness I feared as a child surround me now.
There are scars beneath my clothes— each a reminder of a terrible night. The Y-incision of an autopsy bisects my torso. One foot reads “no more velveteen rabbit,” the other says merely “everyone lies.” Xs are carved over my heart.
The only one who touches my body with intent to harm is me. I’m dangerous at night, when I am alone.
My bodyguard was a large, purple-furred gorilla. He was not cute and cuddly, but he was not scary either. He was business-like, a gorilla who could get things done. I take it for granted that his inspiration was the cartoon character Grape Ape, but I fear that if I google Grape Ape to confirm this, I will find my hazy memories of my bodyguard entirely remade in the cartoon’s image. I fear that Grape Ape might have sported a bowler hat—an indignity that my silent, stoic bodyguard would never have suffered.
I remember my bodyguard best in my father’s house, following behind me on the stairs at night. I was never afraid of the dark, but he was always there anyway, mute and
unmovable. He certainly was not there for my amusement; he refused to speak. But he was there, in the night, when I was alone.
I do not remember how old I was when my bodyguard appeared, nor do I remember how old I was when he finally failed to appear. For most of my life he has been reduced to an anecdote, a one-liner thrown out for laughs whenever the conversation turns to childhood imaginary friends. I do not remember when or why I needed him.
I can barely remember the questions I used to ask him—Who are you? Where did you come from? Why are you following me? I remember my frustration at his unwillingness or inability to answer me. I do not remember being calmed or comforted by his presence. I only remember my acceptance of the situation, tempered by a mild irritation.
I do not remember, was not capable of articulating, what my bodyguard was there to protect me from. I can guess, of course. To have the monolith of “my parents” split into two uncertain people, with previously sublimated needs and wants, raises spectres of loss, loneliness, passion, and struggle. New adults with their own selves and histories would come and go with little regard for the small girl who talked out the side of her mouth, like a bum with a stogie, and trailed an invisible gorilla behind her.
Now a divorced mother myself, I have a new invisible bodyguard. She is real this time—my friend Donna, a large, solid woman with a reckless love of power tools and has the truncated finger to prove it. She and her equally imposing girlfriend are the self-appointed watchdogs of my safety as I sow my long-delayed wild oats. Before I meet a new man, I call Donna to say where I am going and whom I will be with. Before I go home with him, I call her again to give her his address and arrange a time to call in the morning to report that I am still alive. We have a code question I will ask if I ever feel unsafe—an inquiry after one of her dogs is the signal for the avenging dykes to come to my rescue. So far, this has not been necessary.
What I feared as a child, I am living now. I have left the airless desperation of a dying marriage and barely survived the inevitable, unsuitable rebound man. I have gone home with the inexperienced but tenderhearted techie, the guitar player who made me scream like a banshee, the ex-Satanist who missed his ex-girlfriend, the lonely man with cats, the dude who owns more pairs of shoes than I do, the New Orleans hippie with paint peeling off his walls like a neglected fresco, the ex-army man now growing his goatee to his waist, the guy from Jersey with the little blind dog, and Jimmy, the scrawny kid from Kansas with crates full of vinyl. I am not afraid of men, or what they do, in the night, when we are alone.
The truth is that the only danger I face is that which blossoms within me. The neurotic tendencies I was born with, the anxiety and sorrow planted in my childhood, have bloomed into a chronic state of dread and self-loathing that informs every waking hour, often leaving me gasping for breath. The chaos and loneliness I feared as a child surround me now.
There are scars beneath my clothes— each a reminder of a terrible night. The Y-incision of an autopsy bisects my torso. One foot reads “no more velveteen rabbit,” the other says merely “everyone lies.” Xs are carved over my heart.
The only one who touches my body with intent to harm is me. I’m dangerous at night, when I am alone.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
This Is What I Got Out Of Tooth School (second draft)
I have known you for years. I know the sound of your laugh and what it looks like when you cry. I know, if not every inch of your body, at least most of them. I know the smell of your neck. I know how your voice sounds muffled when you talk in your sleep. I know your past and what little plans you have for your future. I know the feel of you in my arms as you move inside me. I know you better than anyone else does. But sometimes I wonder if I know you at all.
My first thought, on meeting you, was “He doesn’t look as stupid as Star says he is.” You were leaning against the front of the lab, smoking. Your face had a slightly ferrety look, your hair was slicked back, and you wore a long chain on his wallet. I didn’t know it yet, but over the coming year, I would get great amusement from watching you lurch and reel as the chain caught on your chair.
For the first few months we worked together, you were silent. Then one day you cracked, into the existing conversation, a joke so clever and so foul that I found myself looking at you for the first time all over again.
Soon we went to lunch together, awkwardly at first, and then more naturally. “This is no good, she is married,” tutted our Armenian boss. We protested our innocence-- “We’re just friends, Raffi.”
Cleaning day was the point of no return for me. After dousing the wax-covered floor in lighter fluid and setting it on fire, we snuck away, without clocking out, to the bar down the lock where we sat and talked and drank. I saw you backlit by the winter sun, your hair falling over your forehead, and I realized that I liked you way too much.
I took a picture on my phone to save the moment when my life changed forever. I lay in bed with the flu, weeks later, and looked at the picture, furtively, as a lifeline. Like a dream
Sunday, June 05, 2005
I dreamed of you last night....
Instead of running away to Mexico, like we joke about sometimes, we went to the Enchanted Forest. I'm sure you've never been there, being from California and all, but I went there a lot as a kid. It was different, of course, in the way of dreams, darker and more disturbing. We were the only ones there, besides the shadowy staff, and we wandered in a maze of half-finished exhibits with puddles on the floor until at last I could stand it no more and kissed you.
And then I woke up sweating, sick with longing and horror.
I very nearly kissed you Friday, at the end of the day. Everyone else had gone home, and it was just the two of us. You have no idea how I long for those occasions. I was watching your hands as you worked, fixing my mistakes. I studied your fingertips, blunted and square with the cuticles sneaking up the nails. I watched your hair fall over your forehead. I almost reached out to you.
I'm crying a little now, as I think of it. I never wanted to be this woman- fat, old, pathetic. I never meant to lose interest in my husband. I never intended to fall for a man who is so clearly unsuitable, who reminds me so much of my father, who doesn't even read, for christssake. I never meant to be here. So of course, here I am.
I wonder sometimes how much of this you're aware of. On the one hand, you are terrible at figuring out women. On the other hand, you've shown a knack for figuring out me. It's a dangerous game. I often wonder if you find me attractive. I have no idea what I look like anymore.
All I know is that I want you. I don't want to walk away from my life and ride off into the sunset- I could never abandon my child, and I don't even think we'd last very long as an actual honest-to-god couple. I just want to be able to put my hands on you, to kiss you, to sneak off on our lunch break to fuck in your car. I want you to call me on the weekends and tell me you miss me. I want the rush, the adrenaline, to feel alive again. I want to feel like I'm not so alone.
Things changed at the lab. Raffi, the sweet, naïve, fatherly Armenian, left for California. Rick, the provocateur, collected his porn, sabotaged the machines and left to marry his Muslim lawyer girlfriend. Soon it was the two of us against the world. I was not alone.
I snatched every moment I could to go to work. To escape from my collapsing marriage and troubled child, to watch the man I loved and hope that no one noticed. “This is just between you and me,” Michael in shipping said as he related a piece of gossip. “And I know that between you and me also includes Zach.”
I got up early, waiting for the bus as the first light seeped in. Sometimes I got to work to find you still there, working, from the night before. Every day we went to lunch, I drinking a vodka tonic, you taking quick hits of weed in front of an empty storefront. We talked of our childhoods, painful past and present relationships, and sometimes sat silently, filled with thoughts that could not safely be said. Once I asked you "Which one of your ex-girlfriends' hearts did you break? Which one still thinks "Damn you, Zach!"
"All of them," you said.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
I'm so confused.
I decided that I want to stay married. I really, truly do. I know that I will never find a better man than my husband, and I know that if you and I ever were to try, god help us, to have a relationship, that we would end up horribly reenacting the hideous dramas of our childhoods, but none of this is any help in making me stop wanting to kiss you.
All the time.
When you get to work in the morning fresh out of the shower with your hair combed back, I want to kiss you. At lunch, when you have salad dressing on your chin, I want to kiss you. I want to kiss you when you're sighing over the new cases, taking a drag off my cigarette, talking to doctors on the phone, running your hand through your hair, when you're looking at me because you just heard something you know I'll think is funny, and most of all when you've got a thin dusting of acrylic on your cheekbone.
I wish I could tell you how cute you are. How sexy your hands are, with all the calluses and your knuckles just the right amount of knobbly. How adorable it is when you get agitated and your hair starts sticking up. How much I like your laugh.
You're not even that good looking.
I just don't know what's wrong with me.
Nearly a year after Cleaning Day, we were fired- a combination of a stupid prank and management’s maneuvering. A week later we sat in a different bar and I said, my heart beating wildly, “I love you. I can’t see you anymore.” “I understand,” you said. We did not speak for six months.
Friday, September 23, 2005
I don't know how to get through this night.
I wish so much I could call you. But if there's one thing I've learned, it's that you can't count on an Aries when the chips are down. You don't want to see me cry. It would just make you squirmy and then you'd run.
But I don't know how much more I can take. My life is getting so awful so fast. I don't know how to live through this, and I don't have anyone to turn to.
Years went by. I convinced myself that it was an aberration, merely a symptom of other conflicts. We met and parted, with various degrees of conflict, never speaking of that which drew us together and kept us apart. We went out to nightclubs and drank too much. We lied to ourselves, to each other, to everyone.
One night, again in the winter, after too many Cosmos, you sat down beside me in the booth. I leaned against your shoulder. You put your arm around me and trailed your fingers along my back. We sat like that for a long time, everything of seemingly endless significance, the remains of a sesame cracker clutched, forgotten, in my hand.
Later we would argue, and never resolve, who had moved first. However it happened, we were kissing, while around us our lives shifted into new configurations of uncertainty, fear. and hope. Later I would remember the toast I ordered and then was unable to eat, the newly naked and vulnerable look on your face.
At home, I lay on the couch for two weeks, as if fevered. I slept and ate very little, losing nearly ten pounds. When I arose again, my marriage was over.
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Is it possible for a memory to become grubby and indistinct from over handling? I know we talked for hours that night, but I only remember a half-hour's worth, tops. I want to remember every word.
I went out last night with my brother and his girlfriend. We ended up at a bar, and it was horribly noisy and crowded and they seemed to know half the people there. Small fucking town, I guess.
That's only the second time I've been out of the house since the last time I talked to you. Both times I ended up in bars smoking and staring at my drink while someone says "Shit, man, that sucks. I don't know what to tell you."
I don't know what to tell me either.
I can't believe how much it hurts. I want so badly to call you, to tell you I can't do this. I want to see you again, to kiss you one more time. I want it to not be over.
Underneath all the pain, in spite of it all, a tiny part of me is happy. I never, ever thought I'd hear you say you loved me. It's thrilling and dizzying. It means everything to me.
But then I remember that I may never hear it again, and I curl up into a ball and cry. And I'm irritated at you, which is totally unfair. I want you to love me, I always have, but finding out that you actually do has made my life REALLY FUCKING HARD.
Finally, it was a real relationship, open, acknowledged, honest. But it didn’t take long for things to go sour. I had never lived alone. You knew nothing else. I was raised with constant, heavy drama. You fled from any sign of emotion. I cried. You withdrew. We broke up. We got back together. Horrible things were said.
The next winter, always in winter, we broke up for good.
Monday, December 1, 2008
I’m feeling very anxious just now.
I’m alone in my apartment. I haven’t been really alone in days, and I don’t like it. I don’t quite trust myself.
I miss you too much. I want desperately to know that you haven’t given up on me, that when I come out the other side you’ll still be there. And I can’t know. It’s dreadful.
I haven’t any food in the house, except some oat biscuits that I’m too troubled to eat. Terrible stenches are coming from the garbage, and there’s cat shit on the floor, and I can’t bring myself to do anything about it. I want to cry. The hope I felt earlier is gone, replaced by a grim emptiness in where I imagine my stomach to be.
I know that I ought to be concerned with getting better for my own sake, for my son’s sake, for the sake, God help me, of the work I have yet to do. But all I care about is getting you back. I know it’s wrong, but I’m powerless to change it. I don’t feel the anguish I often do, when it feels as though my chest is going to rupture from the ache and the longing, but I feel a deep, grinding, hopeless resignation.
I’m not proud of any of this, you know.
I was going to buy berry pop-tarts, but then I saw the orange cream. I knew that they could be really good or really bad, and I would never know which until I bought them. From behind the counter, Mel called “You know you want to try them!” I did.
The night before, the man I slept with most often had told me that he couldn’t go on having sex with a woman that he didn’t love. I agreed that it was time for him to move on, and wished him well, even though I would miss him. The next morning I saw him posting in Casual Encounters. I was angry and hurt.
Seeking comfort, I called you and badgered you into letting me spend the night with you, watching TV and getting high. I took the pop-tarts with me.
The smoke filled my lungs, tasting faintly of mint and dirt. I coughed and gasped for breath. When the drug hit my bloodstream, I relaxed for the first time all week and reached for the first Pop-tart.
The filling was runnier than I expected, and it was a pale, almost sickly orange. To my surprise, the grainy sweetness tasted exactly like St. Joseph’s baby aspirin. I said so to you, but you had never known there was such a thing as baby aspirin.
We smoked and watched cartoons for hours, lulled into finally feeling at home in the world. Your hair had grown too long. Combined with the glasses that you seldom wore, it made you look every day of the forty you were about to turn. I ate my way steadily through the Pop-tarts, washing them down with lukewarm diet Coke. We talked about whether it would be okay to have sex with a cartoon dog if he talked, drove a car, and smoked cigarettes.
Eventually, we drifted to bed. I could still taste the gritty orange in the teeth I was too lazy to brush. I ran my hand under your shirt, marveling anew at how hairy your chest was. You slept, murmuring fretfully.
I leaned my head against yours and breathed in each of your exhalations. When awake, you held yourself back from me, determined to never fully commit. Asleep, unguarded, for a moment you were mine. The smell of your breath was sweet, despite the years of meth damage to your teeth. It was the same smell I discovered the night you first kissed me, the night that killed my ailing marriage. The acridity of your beloved weed was mellowed by the journey to your pores. It was sweet and woodsy, like sun-warmed trees.
You stirred briefly and kissed my shoulder as I sunk gratefully into sleep.
I dreamed last night that I finally found a real boyfriend. He looked like Paul Rudd, and was a painter who dabbled in musical theater. It was one of those mega-Hollywood stories—we had met somewhere and talked for hours, made a connection, and somehow lost track of each other. After some time, he tracked me down at a raucous but unfulfilling party. We hurtled into each other’s arms and I knew we would be together for a long time. He went off to get a drink, and as I woke up, I was looking for him to ask “Hey, it’s ok if I still sleep with Zach sometimes, right?”
I will move on, but you will always be with me.
* * *
My first thought, on meeting you, was “He doesn’t look as stupid as Star says he is.” You were leaning against the front of the lab, smoking. Your face had a slightly ferrety look, your hair was slicked back, and you wore a long chain on his wallet. I didn’t know it yet, but over the coming year, I would get great amusement from watching you lurch and reel as the chain caught on your chair.
For the first few months we worked together, you were silent. Then one day you cracked, into the existing conversation, a joke so clever and so foul that I found myself looking at you for the first time all over again.
Soon we went to lunch together, awkwardly at first, and then more naturally. “This is no good, she is married,” tutted our Armenian boss. We protested our innocence-- “We’re just friends, Raffi.”
Cleaning day was the point of no return for me. After dousing the wax-covered floor in lighter fluid and setting it on fire, we snuck away, without clocking out, to the bar down the lock where we sat and talked and drank. I saw you backlit by the winter sun, your hair falling over your forehead, and I realized that I liked you way too much.
I took a picture on my phone to save the moment when my life changed forever. I lay in bed with the flu, weeks later, and looked at the picture, furtively, as a lifeline. Like a dream
* * *
Sunday, June 05, 2005
I dreamed of you last night....
Instead of running away to Mexico, like we joke about sometimes, we went to the Enchanted Forest. I'm sure you've never been there, being from California and all, but I went there a lot as a kid. It was different, of course, in the way of dreams, darker and more disturbing. We were the only ones there, besides the shadowy staff, and we wandered in a maze of half-finished exhibits with puddles on the floor until at last I could stand it no more and kissed you.
And then I woke up sweating, sick with longing and horror.
I very nearly kissed you Friday, at the end of the day. Everyone else had gone home, and it was just the two of us. You have no idea how I long for those occasions. I was watching your hands as you worked, fixing my mistakes. I studied your fingertips, blunted and square with the cuticles sneaking up the nails. I watched your hair fall over your forehead. I almost reached out to you.
I'm crying a little now, as I think of it. I never wanted to be this woman- fat, old, pathetic. I never meant to lose interest in my husband. I never intended to fall for a man who is so clearly unsuitable, who reminds me so much of my father, who doesn't even read, for christssake. I never meant to be here. So of course, here I am.
I wonder sometimes how much of this you're aware of. On the one hand, you are terrible at figuring out women. On the other hand, you've shown a knack for figuring out me. It's a dangerous game. I often wonder if you find me attractive. I have no idea what I look like anymore.
All I know is that I want you. I don't want to walk away from my life and ride off into the sunset- I could never abandon my child, and I don't even think we'd last very long as an actual honest-to-god couple. I just want to be able to put my hands on you, to kiss you, to sneak off on our lunch break to fuck in your car. I want you to call me on the weekends and tell me you miss me. I want the rush, the adrenaline, to feel alive again. I want to feel like I'm not so alone.
* * *
Things changed at the lab. Raffi, the sweet, naïve, fatherly Armenian, left for California. Rick, the provocateur, collected his porn, sabotaged the machines and left to marry his Muslim lawyer girlfriend. Soon it was the two of us against the world. I was not alone.
I snatched every moment I could to go to work. To escape from my collapsing marriage and troubled child, to watch the man I loved and hope that no one noticed. “This is just between you and me,” Michael in shipping said as he related a piece of gossip. “And I know that between you and me also includes Zach.”
I got up early, waiting for the bus as the first light seeped in. Sometimes I got to work to find you still there, working, from the night before. Every day we went to lunch, I drinking a vodka tonic, you taking quick hits of weed in front of an empty storefront. We talked of our childhoods, painful past and present relationships, and sometimes sat silently, filled with thoughts that could not safely be said. Once I asked you "Which one of your ex-girlfriends' hearts did you break? Which one still thinks "Damn you, Zach!"
"All of them," you said.
* * *
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
I'm so confused.
I decided that I want to stay married. I really, truly do. I know that I will never find a better man than my husband, and I know that if you and I ever were to try, god help us, to have a relationship, that we would end up horribly reenacting the hideous dramas of our childhoods, but none of this is any help in making me stop wanting to kiss you.
All the time.
When you get to work in the morning fresh out of the shower with your hair combed back, I want to kiss you. At lunch, when you have salad dressing on your chin, I want to kiss you. I want to kiss you when you're sighing over the new cases, taking a drag off my cigarette, talking to doctors on the phone, running your hand through your hair, when you're looking at me because you just heard something you know I'll think is funny, and most of all when you've got a thin dusting of acrylic on your cheekbone.
I wish I could tell you how cute you are. How sexy your hands are, with all the calluses and your knuckles just the right amount of knobbly. How adorable it is when you get agitated and your hair starts sticking up. How much I like your laugh.
You're not even that good looking.
I just don't know what's wrong with me.
* * *
Nearly a year after Cleaning Day, we were fired- a combination of a stupid prank and management’s maneuvering. A week later we sat in a different bar and I said, my heart beating wildly, “I love you. I can’t see you anymore.” “I understand,” you said. We did not speak for six months.
* * *
Friday, September 23, 2005
I don't know how to get through this night.
I wish so much I could call you. But if there's one thing I've learned, it's that you can't count on an Aries when the chips are down. You don't want to see me cry. It would just make you squirmy and then you'd run.
But I don't know how much more I can take. My life is getting so awful so fast. I don't know how to live through this, and I don't have anyone to turn to.
* * *
Years went by. I convinced myself that it was an aberration, merely a symptom of other conflicts. We met and parted, with various degrees of conflict, never speaking of that which drew us together and kept us apart. We went out to nightclubs and drank too much. We lied to ourselves, to each other, to everyone.
One night, again in the winter, after too many Cosmos, you sat down beside me in the booth. I leaned against your shoulder. You put your arm around me and trailed your fingers along my back. We sat like that for a long time, everything of seemingly endless significance, the remains of a sesame cracker clutched, forgotten, in my hand.
Later we would argue, and never resolve, who had moved first. However it happened, we were kissing, while around us our lives shifted into new configurations of uncertainty, fear. and hope. Later I would remember the toast I ordered and then was unable to eat, the newly naked and vulnerable look on your face.
At home, I lay on the couch for two weeks, as if fevered. I slept and ate very little, losing nearly ten pounds. When I arose again, my marriage was over.
* * *
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Is it possible for a memory to become grubby and indistinct from over handling? I know we talked for hours that night, but I only remember a half-hour's worth, tops. I want to remember every word.
I went out last night with my brother and his girlfriend. We ended up at a bar, and it was horribly noisy and crowded and they seemed to know half the people there. Small fucking town, I guess.
That's only the second time I've been out of the house since the last time I talked to you. Both times I ended up in bars smoking and staring at my drink while someone says "Shit, man, that sucks. I don't know what to tell you."
I don't know what to tell me either.
I can't believe how much it hurts. I want so badly to call you, to tell you I can't do this. I want to see you again, to kiss you one more time. I want it to not be over.
Underneath all the pain, in spite of it all, a tiny part of me is happy. I never, ever thought I'd hear you say you loved me. It's thrilling and dizzying. It means everything to me.
But then I remember that I may never hear it again, and I curl up into a ball and cry. And I'm irritated at you, which is totally unfair. I want you to love me, I always have, but finding out that you actually do has made my life REALLY FUCKING HARD.
* * *
Finally, it was a real relationship, open, acknowledged, honest. But it didn’t take long for things to go sour. I had never lived alone. You knew nothing else. I was raised with constant, heavy drama. You fled from any sign of emotion. I cried. You withdrew. We broke up. We got back together. Horrible things were said.
The next winter, always in winter, we broke up for good.
* * *
Monday, December 1, 2008
I’m feeling very anxious just now.
I’m alone in my apartment. I haven’t been really alone in days, and I don’t like it. I don’t quite trust myself.
I miss you too much. I want desperately to know that you haven’t given up on me, that when I come out the other side you’ll still be there. And I can’t know. It’s dreadful.
I haven’t any food in the house, except some oat biscuits that I’m too troubled to eat. Terrible stenches are coming from the garbage, and there’s cat shit on the floor, and I can’t bring myself to do anything about it. I want to cry. The hope I felt earlier is gone, replaced by a grim emptiness in where I imagine my stomach to be.
I know that I ought to be concerned with getting better for my own sake, for my son’s sake, for the sake, God help me, of the work I have yet to do. But all I care about is getting you back. I know it’s wrong, but I’m powerless to change it. I don’t feel the anguish I often do, when it feels as though my chest is going to rupture from the ache and the longing, but I feel a deep, grinding, hopeless resignation.
I’m not proud of any of this, you know.
* * *
I was going to buy berry pop-tarts, but then I saw the orange cream. I knew that they could be really good or really bad, and I would never know which until I bought them. From behind the counter, Mel called “You know you want to try them!” I did.
The night before, the man I slept with most often had told me that he couldn’t go on having sex with a woman that he didn’t love. I agreed that it was time for him to move on, and wished him well, even though I would miss him. The next morning I saw him posting in Casual Encounters. I was angry and hurt.
Seeking comfort, I called you and badgered you into letting me spend the night with you, watching TV and getting high. I took the pop-tarts with me.
The smoke filled my lungs, tasting faintly of mint and dirt. I coughed and gasped for breath. When the drug hit my bloodstream, I relaxed for the first time all week and reached for the first Pop-tart.
The filling was runnier than I expected, and it was a pale, almost sickly orange. To my surprise, the grainy sweetness tasted exactly like St. Joseph’s baby aspirin. I said so to you, but you had never known there was such a thing as baby aspirin.
We smoked and watched cartoons for hours, lulled into finally feeling at home in the world. Your hair had grown too long. Combined with the glasses that you seldom wore, it made you look every day of the forty you were about to turn. I ate my way steadily through the Pop-tarts, washing them down with lukewarm diet Coke. We talked about whether it would be okay to have sex with a cartoon dog if he talked, drove a car, and smoked cigarettes.
Eventually, we drifted to bed. I could still taste the gritty orange in the teeth I was too lazy to brush. I ran my hand under your shirt, marveling anew at how hairy your chest was. You slept, murmuring fretfully.
I leaned my head against yours and breathed in each of your exhalations. When awake, you held yourself back from me, determined to never fully commit. Asleep, unguarded, for a moment you were mine. The smell of your breath was sweet, despite the years of meth damage to your teeth. It was the same smell I discovered the night you first kissed me, the night that killed my ailing marriage. The acridity of your beloved weed was mellowed by the journey to your pores. It was sweet and woodsy, like sun-warmed trees.
You stirred briefly and kissed my shoulder as I sunk gratefully into sleep.
* * *
I dreamed last night that I finally found a real boyfriend. He looked like Paul Rudd, and was a painter who dabbled in musical theater. It was one of those mega-Hollywood stories—we had met somewhere and talked for hours, made a connection, and somehow lost track of each other. After some time, he tracked me down at a raucous but unfulfilling party. We hurtled into each other’s arms and I knew we would be together for a long time. He went off to get a drink, and as I woke up, I was looking for him to ask “Hey, it’s ok if I still sleep with Zach sometimes, right?”
I will move on, but you will always be with me.
My Best Friend and Other Animals
My best friend is a man. More specifically, my best friend is a man I used to date. The breakup story we have come to agree on is that I was crazy and he was an asshole. This is not always the most comfortable kind of best friend to have.
The other day we had the following text message conversation:
Me- Today [my son] stole a screwdriver and took it to school in case he needed to escape. Then he knocked a kid’s tooth out with a bowling pin. Can we hang out tonight?
Him- Not tonight please.
Me- I am so sad and scared, and it’s hard when you don’t seem to care.
Him- Why do you need someone to care?
Me- Fuck you straight to hell. That is the second nastiest thing you’ve ever said to me. You don’t deserve to have any friends.
In the morning, it occurred to me that maybe he actually hadn’t meant to be an asshole. So I called him. Sure enough, he had been genuinely baffled as to why it was important to me that someone care about my feelings. “Because that’s what people do!” I sputtered. “Not me!” he said smugly.
The whole thing left me wondering just how typical this exchange is. I was raised in a family with a high capacity for empathy and an even higher one for drama. We tend to feel—and express—our feelings thoroughly. My friend was born with a little less empathy than most, and was raised (as an only child, no less,) by an emotionally unavailable father and a demanding, manipulative shrew of a mother. (I’m not just taking his word for it. I met the woman.) Is it any wonder that we didn’t last long as a couple? And yet we are still friends.
According to the text, men seek out friendships with women as a place for emotional disclosure and empathy. We had some of that in the beginning, certainly, but it seemed to have been derailed by that whole dating thing. Hmmm. I text him again:
Me- Why are you friends with me when me=girl with feelings and shit? Looking for pithy quote for paper.
Him- Pity.
Well! I admit it has been my annus horribilis, but dang, that’s cold. So I call him up and after we talk for several minutes about the crucial difference between “pity” and “sympathy,” he agrees that the dating relationship did disrupt our earlier friendship, and that we had not quite regained that quality of friendship. “So why do you still want to hang out with me?” I asked. “Inertia,” he said.
Fair enough.
The other day we had the following text message conversation:
Me- Today [my son] stole a screwdriver and took it to school in case he needed to escape. Then he knocked a kid’s tooth out with a bowling pin. Can we hang out tonight?
Him- Not tonight please.
Me- I am so sad and scared, and it’s hard when you don’t seem to care.
Him- Why do you need someone to care?
Me- Fuck you straight to hell. That is the second nastiest thing you’ve ever said to me. You don’t deserve to have any friends.
In the morning, it occurred to me that maybe he actually hadn’t meant to be an asshole. So I called him. Sure enough, he had been genuinely baffled as to why it was important to me that someone care about my feelings. “Because that’s what people do!” I sputtered. “Not me!” he said smugly.
The whole thing left me wondering just how typical this exchange is. I was raised in a family with a high capacity for empathy and an even higher one for drama. We tend to feel—and express—our feelings thoroughly. My friend was born with a little less empathy than most, and was raised (as an only child, no less,) by an emotionally unavailable father and a demanding, manipulative shrew of a mother. (I’m not just taking his word for it. I met the woman.) Is it any wonder that we didn’t last long as a couple? And yet we are still friends.
According to the text, men seek out friendships with women as a place for emotional disclosure and empathy. We had some of that in the beginning, certainly, but it seemed to have been derailed by that whole dating thing. Hmmm. I text him again:
Me- Why are you friends with me when me=girl with feelings and shit? Looking for pithy quote for paper.
Him- Pity.
Well! I admit it has been my annus horribilis, but dang, that’s cold. So I call him up and after we talk for several minutes about the crucial difference between “pity” and “sympathy,” he agrees that the dating relationship did disrupt our earlier friendship, and that we had not quite regained that quality of friendship. “So why do you still want to hang out with me?” I asked. “Inertia,” he said.
Fair enough.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)