Welp. I've always been attracted to irony. So why not try to make safe space out of a man today of all days? Swim against the riptides.
Lancaster. Two separate occasions. One on a guest bed (though he had offered the main bedroom, with the memory foam mattress they had gone to buy one day when we were just friends, they bought a vacuum cleaner too, a Dyson, I remembered so many details he had told me, about trying to be with her, about tofu scramble and chicken wing tower disagreements) on top of the comforter (guestroom brown?). That time, it was if I took all that in along with him, every story of himself he had, up into my own body. I was giving.
But there was another time, in a living room, there was a couch, I remember sitting at his feet looking up at him, we were talking, he found that particular arrangement uncomfortable, he asked me to sit with him instead. This is what I remember, what happened on the couch. Not the boots later, which of course I kept on, I never took them off, I slept in them back then to be ready to run. Like people keep guns next to their beds only different. Straddling him on the couch, I felt for the first time the sensation of inhaling another person, like pulling a string of light from inside him, letting the weight of my want grow until he felt pinned and his soul was on my tongue, where I would keep it and never give it back. I was taking.
And I would keep taking, years of it, increasing my capacity until I could swallow him past all that had been stuck in my craw for forevvver, swallow him to where all my words were all stuck. And glow from there like Mavis could sing.
I still have the skirt, so I put it on. Sense memory has truth in it, so I've been told. I've always liked this skirt, the silky nylon feeling, very thin, black and white quick dry. Unlike his cargo shorts, which were soaking wet. He left his shirt untucked to hide that out of gentlemanly courtesy towards me. Like calling me ma'am only different.
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| "taking myself back" |
I've been reading that book, Sacred Sex. The font is in fucking pink 🙄. But I'm trying to be OPEN to what the universe is putting out there for me atm, so I stick with it long enough to get the jist: masterbate more. Well maybe not MORE, but more attentively. Dwell on it so you more fully understand yourself.
I very much liked that I never saw him coming, the opposite of a hard sell, and that as a result I spent a long time coming to trust him and then not-fucking him, learning to trust him more, trust him with my body, learning to trust my own body and its choice of him. Even that day, when he stood in the doorway pulling his shirt tail down in front, trying not to laugh, my kissing his smile, his teeth, him laughing more at that. There were more times, in my house, his face between my legs, then standing in the driveway after, telling him to go get to work getting divorced. The time on the grass. I fucked him none of those times. He said another new fact recently, "I love hunting." I loved being hunted. Being hunted means being seen.
I'm the Elmer Fudd. I can stand in front of rooms full of people and nobody sees me. Almost nobody.
I learned to write to him. To risk articulation. To let words come that are about him, to write those down even if I am not sure what sense they make. I remember sending him a thing I wrote about him, a fantasy, I wondered if word version I had made of him felt true. I knew it would summon him, if it felt true for him, true of him. And it turned me on very much to find I could do that.
What we remember about "Us" is the sex. And I let everyone understand it that way, it's easiest, I had a good time, men do it, midlife whatever. But that is a cover story. I do not know how to understand all that happened between him and me - I don't know how to understand it, how not to crave it, how not to feel aversion toward it too, the way people often talk about where they're from. Home sick. And I want to understand it. I need to understand it.
I very often do not get, am not getting, what I need.
Here's what I know (a poem?):
This friendship is valuable to me right now.
It feels missing, like this blog is half a conversation, a block of text on a milk carton.
We are not dead. Or missing. Except by choice.
He's some kinda getting divorced. Getting, I remember the getting days of divorce
Boy, I was mad. And under that, what?
Sometimes I'm so mad again now. And under that, what?
Anyone getting divorced needs friends.
The 'get you' kind of friends have particular value.
We can get laid easily, nothing is easier than that on the person:person option list, why people do it so much eludes me frankly.
Understanding from or for someone, not easy at all, to find to get to give to want to (let one's self) need.
So here's what I'd like to do: be a good friend.
I can try.
Play me a song?
