He thinks he’s wooed me. He thinks he is a gentleman. Dashing,charming, courting. The flowers. The impromptu tickets to no where and everywhere. He thought his days of effort and work had plateaued when she helped unzip his pants, car windows fogging up, breath speeding up.
He pulls out of a kiss, whispers, "I love you." There’s pride in his voice-not the kind of pride that carries arrogance-but the kind of pride the little five year old neighbour holds in his voice after his first bike ride without falling. I smile, eyes crinkled, laugh lines deepening. There is a desperate yearning to hear the words like my lungs are finally filling with oxygen. Quite literally-it isn’t a great feeling-it burns through you like a good scotch and oh, oh, ohhh, it is so painfully good. What is it about a complete stranger’s love that we crave so much? How do we grow up being loved unconditionally and yet are willing to throw away everything and everyone we love for a nobody-for somebody else’s somebody?
In the ever dark and twisted place that is my mind one would presume I’d be more skeptical in my response; at the very least in the way I respond. But I reply with the eagerness of a puppy-the inner me flinches. The overpowering need to be touched from inside is too strong-that void that’s chronically starving to be filled; that is why I say, "I love you too" with conviction.
I know with utmost certainty that he does not love me. Absolutely. Does. Not. I’m a force to be reckoned with. I say that with no pride. Rather it is with shame and disgust-the appropriate word here would be overwhelming. I am positively, unceremoniously overwhelming. Take it how you may.
It has always been a choice of being in or out. There is no dipping your toes at the edge of the water to see if you’ll adjust to my temperature. You dive into the unknown, whether that’s the coldest chambers of my heart or the hottest flames of my amygdala (the region of the brain responsible for love, angsts and other fucks).
How do I tell him he only likes me? Without sounding condescending? Pretentious, haughty. I am after all undoubtedly condescending, pretentious and haughty on the best of days. He likes sex with me. He likes the idea of me. He is flirting with the idea of loving the idea of me. But me? No no no, he does not love me. Most people like or even love the idea of me. But the reality is so much uglier. Not the ugly-beautiful kind of ugly. The kind of ugly that makes you feel guilty. The kind you can’t make eye contact with. And no one likes to feel guilty like they’re tip-toeing on egg shells in the crevices and cracks of life where they want to feel most comfortable.
What he wants is sex. And love. But without the love. But my love, it’s conjoined twin is intensity. It hits you hard; so painful you may even like it if you like to get spanked. Joke. My humour is warped-part of that dark and twistiness.
I am all consuming. Fire. And I want a love that is all consuming. Anything short of that is a friend with benefits. Not even a good friend with benefits; it’s the kind of benefits where you’re actually getting more ripped off being in the union-your dues get you nothing.
Why has emotional intimacy become the hardest hurdle to surpass? I feel like a common whore pushed to the streets after you fucked me. See. Intense. Over whelming. I know. But tell me, what is the difference between me and the whore if you are able to show me shamelessly and effortlessly every inch of your carcass, able to exchange unknown bodily fluid with me without question but spit me out when I want to exchange feelings? Oh right, the whore gets paid. Dark and twisty. Dark and twisty. Dark and twisty.
I am admittedly arrogant. Vain. My demeanour is arrogant even when my intentions are not. And with that, let me tell you I am perspicacious. I hate it. It is a curse and a double-edged sword. How do you see the bigger picture and then sit around waiting for everyone else to catch up? (She said so humbly).
-while we're on the subject can we change the subject now
