Oct 06 2008
Oxymoron, I am such a moron.
Couldn’t sleep last night. So that’s obvious to you and me. You know, you’ve shared a bed once or twice with me. Ancient history now.
I could always meditate on your face. Or someone else’s, but when there was an “us,” it was always you and me. You. Me. In my head, sounding and acting the way we always knew best.
But it wasn’t always the sex. It was the idea of your breath and your lungs, moving leagues below your skin and resulting on my back as we slept. My god, we slept soundly when we were happy.
But I could always rest on that. Pray, meditate, whatever. It was always just us.
But last night, I think I came to realize how you damage, and the damage, before is done. I can always rejuvenate myself, freshen and walk along on a sidewalk like I know where the sidewalk goes. To the arms of another lover. What, no? My body in its pre-slumber state tells me that.
I seek out a face in my eyelids. Yours, his, that one’s, him maybe. But their faces, the ones of men I have loved and can love, flip past, effervescently in my head, like rejected numbers on a rolodex.
Don’t know how I like that simile but for a second in my head it delineated last night’s trauma correctly.
I could masticate your face, rip it apart momentarily and mentally, piece back together what I loved. One past memory. Your face, one faint memory. A picture in a scrapbook, documenting my failures.
There’s him in his assembled scrapbook. Online. In this monstrosity we call Facebook we like to think keeps us happy. On the contrary, we are miserable as we make celebrities out of average people.
But Mario, the man I refused sex from a so long ago, is not average. He is a celebrity, the way I idolized him before I went to bed. I flipped through all of his 220 pictures, shamefully but then shamelessly.
What is this? Filming a commercial in Spain? There’s the man who sucked my neck, shooting through what looks to be a very expensive piece of equipment. And what, photographing a beautiful model? Who are you Mario C.? Why did I refuse you so ardently? You’re so hot and you’re famous?! What? I wish I spoke Spanish. Then maybe I would understand your friends comments on these photos. Maybe they’re saying “Mario, you loser, you never did any of this shit! You just make it up.”
I wish I spoke Spanish. Then maybe I would understand your friends comments on these photos. Maybe they’re saying “ Mariano you loser, you never did any of this shit! You just make it up.”
Maybe she says “Baby, why did you leave me? I thought we were going to make love in the morning…”
I guess I like to think he’s a womanizer. He’s 18 years old! What makes him think I would so easily give in to sex with him?
The thing is, I could never have sex with someone who had thought he had won. I know that’s what they would do. So, I deny myself the obvious pleasure and sensation because I don’t trust them. And I’m proud. Too proud to let them think they got to me and abandoned me and I feel like I need them. They’d feel empowered, shameless Ithaca College boys who study the fine arts. Independence. And hormones.
I’d be the best candidate for “one-night stand-ship” if I didn’t take their arrogance personally.
What is it that allows me to not focus on a man’s face when I want to sleep and daydream? Or nightdream?
I have trust issues. Thus, I have intimacy issues.
Oh god, have I become cliché?
When I was a kid, and watching all these beautiful trendy, angry, feminist, vintage girls blare their indie-music, I wanted to be a cliché…? Have I become what I always wanted then but, but have now in my maturity come to fear but still desire sub-consciously.
It’s so cliché to claim something is cliché.
Oxymoron. I am such a moron.
