Stop your crying, you pussy

And if I had a chance, for one last time, to either kiss or fuck or go down on you, I’d say no to all of those and opt to just hold you close, the side of my face against your belly, listening to you digest, smelling the closeness of your skin.

And now that you’re so far away that even the prospect of smelling one of your slightly dirty t-shirts is out of the question, every little part of me is broke.

[TILT]

While you were piloting a two-beer buzz and entranced in your turn at the pinball machine, I took the liberty of gazing uninterrupted at your profile, my stomach gently bubbling with narcotized butterflies. I drank it all in, everything that was already burned into my brain. Your perfect and precise jawline, tiny nose, and freckles that were barely visible in the dim and noisy lights of the machine. 

If the world froze now, and said freeze lasted forever, none of us dying or moving, and somehow fine with it, never aging or breaking down, just stuck where we were…I knew that I wouldn’t mind at all, because then I’d never have to say goodbye to you, never have to look away, never have to refer to the admittedly perfect image of you in my mind that I have to content myself with for the majority of my days and nights.

“FUCK! It just goes right down the middle! What the hell am I supposed to do with that?!” You playfully shook your tiny fist at the machine and scowled a childlike scowl that was just another brick in the wall of me loving you.

You looked over at me and I held your gaze for an extra beat, smiling, trapped in your eyes. You smirked that little smirk of yours and every atom in my brain went off like a car bomb.

“Good game, kid”, I said as I stepped to the machine, brushing against your body, partly out of necessity, partly out of need. The night ended, as it always does, and I went home with your smell on my clothes, your face in my mind, and a sense of love so heavy that it may very well crack the goddamned Earth in two.

Dead DJs Don't Spin

In the bathroom hallway, which has a 2 watt bulb lighting it, some girl who was slightly more intoxicated than me was standing ahead of me in the two-person line. With no warning, she launched herself against the wall we were facing, pounded her fist against the flier that was on said wall, and yelled, "Oh my God!!!" (Ok, she was a lot more intoxicated than I was).
"Errr....what?" I had to ask.
She slowly turned her head towards me, in an almost ominous manner, and said, ""DJ AM? He's dead, isn't he?"
The flier was advertising some DJ night at the bar, and someone named DJ AM Gold was "headlining." My brain spun through its Rolodex of dead DJs and stopped on DJ Cam.
"I think DJ Cam is the dead one." I said this is normal, conversational tone. No snark, no snottiness. I wasn't even sure if I was right, but I knew she had to be wrong because dead DJs don't spin.
She glared at me for a second, pulled her still clenched fist off of the wall as the bathroom she was waiting for became available, and before she went in she mustered up about 15 tons of shittiness and said, "PSH! Sorry I can't READ!" and then slammed the bathroom door behind her.
What? Even my mental Rolodex was all, like, "Wait, what?"
I finished up my lackluster date and went home. Later on I looked up the dead DJ. It wasn't DJ Cam (sorry, homie) but was DJ AM. So, she was half-right, I was close, and she was still a psycho.

Attack of the Clones

She had your smile, and she had your nose, and I wasn’t ready to see you again. Even though it wasn’t you. But it hurt just the same, that sense of missing and loss. I would have told her to leave, to kindly fuck off, but she worked there and I was just ordering beers. So we chatted, and laughed, and she was easy to get along with cuz that was her job, and I was easy to get along with and, in a rare move, charming because I was pretending she was you. And at the end of the evening I left too big a tip and went home missing you more than I’ve missed you in years. Missing us, the banter, the comfort, the secret and not so secret desires, the devastation of saying goodbye to that connection.

All I wanted was a goddamned beer.

OkStupid, Part 74: Why I Don't Have the Internet

-->

[Message received on OkCupid]

Her: Pretty funny. ;) How can I not respond to this? Hmmm…yeah, we should definitely not have a drink together and talk about the bad bands we like.

-Theresa :)

[I had no idea who this was or what she was talking about. I had no recollection of writing this person. The problem was, I had been housesitting and drinking and had the internet available to me in the wee hours. I use my phone primarily for communication on Cupid, and since I have fat fingers and can barely type on the thing, coupled with Cupid’s idiotic messaging layout, I tend to not write much… ESPECIALLY if I’ve been drinking. But you give me a full-sized keyboard, three gin and tonics, and the internet, and some bullshit was bound to happen. So I had to go back and see what she was talking about]

:ORIGINAL, FORGOTTEN MESSAGE:

Me: Screaming Trees reference from someone who just sold me a newspaper with a headline telling me that black students are finally allowed to get into college in Tennessee? [I had no idea what that meant. After (re)reading her profile, I still have no idea what this is referencing. It’s like my brain just barfed all over the internet] It’s too bad you like socks, or else I’d offer to buy you a drink. [What?!] Don’t think me too forward, don’t be weird about it. We don’t need to hang out or anything. I’d just drop a gift certificate off at your favorite drink spot. It’s really a win/win situation for you. I’ll also leave you two slurps of milkshake, too. No more, no less. I need my dairy as well. [Again…what?!]

[Even in braille or solresol this would be the worst email ever sent. Why she responded to it is beyond my comprehension. But since she did, I had to write back…because I need the Last Word when I’m feeling like an unbelievably giant dipshit. It’s a symptom of Panic Mode brought on by Word Diarrhea.]

Me: Well I’m glad we can be mature adults about this. Look at that… through all of the bullshit we can still agree on things. We had some good times, sure, and they’ll always be fondly remembered, but we’re both still growing and learning and there’s so much to see and experience. Let’s not limit ourselves. Good luck to you, ma’am. Your drink ticket is at the bar, and Miami Nights 1984’s “Turbulence” album is a masterpiece. [Unsolicited music recommendations are about as useful as unsolicited emails from assholes]

-P.R.

[So I just broke up with her. Which made sense. I still stand by my decision. It was the best thing for both of us. Then, she wrote back, successfully snatching the Last Word trophy from my sad, sweaty hands!]

Her: Hi there! Wow, so generous with the drink ticket! I’m curious if it’s top shelf or well…clearly we’re both people of action and have no time for mediocre beverages. I feel as though I should leave a drink for you also, maybe see where it goes from there. [She’s clearly out of her goddamned mind] I mean, if we can both drink solo, I think we’re off to a good start. A good beginning of inebriation, at the very least.

Thanks for the music tip. At first glance, I’m baffled…but interested.

- T :)

[At this point I’m wondering if she is as drunk as I was. So I kept going. My only desire: to get the Last Word in.]

Me: You speak reams of sense, ma’am. For truly, if two people can drink apart, then there’s no telling what they’re capable of when it comes to doing other things apart. Going to college? Raising children? Detailing cars? Finding the best deals at WinCo? The possibilities are limitless.

In regards to the drink ticket, I only offer up top shelf with those, but for all other occasions when drinks are purchased, it’s strictly well…unless well is Old Crow and a couple of other brands of swill that I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy. In those cases, I go for middle shelf.

We may have to do this drink exchange thing at the same time, in the same bar. Past experience has shown that some bartenders refuse to honour such vouchers (good tenders of bar will honour them with a “u” because they are purveyors of class and take pride in their work). [The best way to get in the last word is to just keep going without taking a breath until someone passes out] I understand that this potentially complicates our vows to never be in the same room with one another, but I’m willing to face such a challenge.

Are you up for such things? [Worst “Asking Out on a Date” move EVER! The saddest Hail Mary ever before typed by human hands!]

-P.R.

[And that was it. I won… and lost. I don’t know what I did or accomplished. And this is why I don’t have the internet, and probably shouldn’t be internet dating, and maybe shouldn’t be drinking. Well, let’s not get carried away. Let’s kill the first two, then we’ll see if the last one can stay.]

One Last Dance

It was a night out, an evening of fun with friends. It hadn’t happened in quite a spell. Live music, smiles, drinks, laughs, dancing. These were the moments that inform nostalgia years down the line. The memories, the few hours of spiritual freedom, the notion that everything within these walls was flawless. No matter how fuzzy the memories ended up, or how horrifying the hangover may be, just the knowledge that nights like this can happen, that there are people in your life that you can share moments like this with, are what create a damn near unbreakable sense of life being nothing short of beautiful. Yeah, genocide. Yeah, AIDS. Yeah poverty and malnutrition and politics and three-dollar apples at New Seasons. Yeah, stubbing your toe so hard that the nail falls off and at that moment of impact, knowing that the pain is equal to being shot in the chest with a small caliber pistol

But for now, this is for us—a release and a relief—our Footloose moment. Dance your ass off. This is our time.

You pulled me up to a fast song and we did that thing we do. We danced, and smiled, and laughed and mugged and vamped. We bumped into strangers with friendly smiles and apologetic hands on shoulders, to be met with more smiles and mimed versions of “It’s OK!” We spun, we bobbed and weaved, we floated like slightly buzzed butterflies and stung like stingerless bees (yeah, I know. Doesn’t make sense, but I had to finish the Ali appropriation).

And the fast song stopped, and the slow jam kicked in and we fell into a familiar stance, your arms around my waist, one of mine up and around and between your shoulder blades, the other down and around and planted firmly in the small of your back., that perfect valley of intimacy We swayed a well-known sway, your head against my chest, my chin gently rested on the top of your head. Saying nothing, just slow, weight from one foot to another, in unison, just being there. And every mistake I’ve ever made blossoming in my mind and my heart.

Thankfully before I could get too involved in myself (and let’s face it, that’s my flaw. Always involved in myself. This entry is a glaring testament to that) the song ended and we decoupled, smiled, raised hands to the low ceiling and cheered.

Back to the table with friends, and drinks, and small talk, you danced with an old man, and young friend, all of us like chattering squirrels, talking in tongues that would make no sense to someone who didn’t speak the language.

And then another slow song, and you stood up and held out your hand and there wasn’t even a moment of hesitation. In my mind I was reaching for your hand before the song even started. But in the real world, you reached first. You always did. Because you’re the brave one, the smart one.

And we went back to it: waist, between shoulder blades, small of back. The difference this time was I was already opened up, emotionally, so everything became almost “Too Much”, but it was a “Too Much” that I didn’t mind. The smell of your hair, the softness of it as I turned my head and rested my cheek on top of your head. I forgot how your hair always smells a little bit like rain, even in the heat of summer. Things I couldn’t relive right now, due to circumstances, like how my lips fit perfectly into to dimple of your temple. The tightness of your hold on my waist, how I held you so closely that it felt like I was trying to absorb you into me, the fear of the song ending even though it had only been going for about twenty seconds. Our tempo floated off into its own thing, my mind was fogged with the now, the notes and drums and din of the room fazing out like a DJ dropped the lo-pass filter (I had to nerd out at least once, right?). I was peripherally worried that I might be holding you too tight, but then I noticed that you weren’t being dainty either. My hand that was on your lower back was pulling as tight as it could, as was my hand that was up high. I couldn’t get you close enough, tight enough; I couldn’t block out the surrounding environment enough to be happy. I wanted us to just float off and up through the roof, into the sky, away from all of the bullshit and missteps I’ve made. I knew that couldn’t happen, but this was an acceptable Plan B.

I was cracking inside, but it wasn’t pain that was leaking out. It was a glow, of knowing that the world could make someone as overwhelmingly magical as you. And that I was able, if even for a scant few minutes, to experience you like most others would never be able to. It’s a deadly sin, I know, but I took great Pride in that blessing. And also wondered why in the hell I was allowed such a privilege.

And then, as they always do, the song ended.

Someone needs to make a thirty-minute slow jam. These four-minute ones aren’t cutting the mustard.

We held on after the music ended, just for a brief moment, arms still in a vice-like grip around one another. Then, slowly, we separated, and smiled slowly, shyly, and went back to the table. Whatever I may have talked about with anyone after that moment, it was all autopilot. I have no recollection. My brain wasn’t so much in the present as it was jammed in a locked groove of the previous dance, of the previous few years, of the knowledge that no one will ever… well, no need to get in to that.

And like all songs, the night ended.

“The one thing that is better than the last slow dance we had?

Everything.

And what’s better than the last slow dance we had?

Nothing.”

- J. Beauregard

Backdated…But I Forgot the Date…

Had I known that it was the last time we were going to kiss… well, had I been privy to that information then it would have meant that I didn’t have my head so firmly and resolutely jammed up my ass. Which would mean that it wouldn’t have been our last kiss. It would have been one in a lifetime of many, and I wouldn’t be writing these fucking words.

Haiku, betch!

I don’t want to be

The one to tell you that you

Are the antichrist

Chin Yen, c.850

(do contractions count?)

Dreamscape #63: Kelp Forests and Rogue Meteors

Night, an indoor lap pool, the room is the length and width of the pool plus an extra four feet on all ends for walking, sitting, placing shit whilst working out. The lights are out, but ample skylights allow for an overeager full moon to illuminate the room like a million candles—all soft and luminescent, rounded edges heavily outlined by deep shadow lines. The whole thing felt like the sonic qualities of Shlohmo’s “Don’t Say No,” which ends up being appropriate.

I was in the pool and naked. Not in a sexy way, just because that’s what you do when lounging in a moonlit pool in the middle of the night. Up against the wall at about the halfway mark, elbows up on the deck to keep from having to do anything with my hands and arms. She slowly came at me through the water with a look that I knew all too well.

She stopped right in front of me, her arms not fighting their natural buoyancy, gently swishing aimlessly like an underwater kelp forest. I missed those arms. She was naked too. Again, not for any sexual reasons. It was just the proper attire for such environments. She looked through my eyes and into my brain, that serious, pained, confused, and longing look that we’ve all seen at least once in our lives if we’ve lived at all.

“I know you love me still. I know it’s killing you.” Her voice was hushed in the dark, muffled by the water and the small space.

“No shit. I’ve made no effort to mask it.”

“You know…we can’t… you had your chance.”

“Yeah, I know. Doesn’t mean it can’t fuck with me a little, does it?”

And with that she propelled herself into me, her arms up over my shoulders, clinging like a scared child, so tight that if it were a hot day and we were two cassettes left on a dashboard, we would have fused together.

I dropped my elbows off of the decking and slid down into her arms. My arms reflexively wrapped around her, tight, desperate, and my face buried into her neck. Not for a kiss, that would have been out of line. This naked, desperate hug was only about 98% out of line. No, I nuzzled in to her soft, long neck just to feel her warmth, to experience her smell again. It was the only thing in this world that I missed.

She pulled her neck away as she hugged me tighter.

“No. We can’t kiss.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

Her being so slight, so tiny, so perfect in my arms, I let go with one arm but left the other which wrapped clear around her so that the tips of my fingertips were touching the front of her ribs on the opposite side. I knew that letting go was going to be impossible. I knew that letting go was going to be necessary.

“I hate you,” she said, looking directly into my eyes. I knew it was the safe thing for her to say. I knew it was more of a declaration for her than it was for me, as if she was training herself to try to feel what she knew she should feel.

“I know,” I said, agreeing for the hundredth time, looking down into the water between us as I let go of her, paying close attention with my hand of every millimeter of her sipped away and out of my arms, away from me, for good.

She backed up about a foot, the silence and bullshit in the air was denser than the water we were standing in. I wished someone would rush in and tie an anchor around my neck, throw me into that silence and bullshit and let me drown in it. It wasn’t an unreasonable desire, but literally drowning in a moment was a silly and self-indulgent literary wish that just made one look like a sappy douche.

We stood like that for a moment, in the dark, in the silence, and then the door to the poolroom opened and in came her boyfriend.

“What’s up, guys?” he said jovially, radar clearly oblivious and unused. She looked over at him and painted on a smile that I could see through like it was the frame of a window that had been kicked out by misguided anarchists.

He waded into the pool wearing baggy shorts and an oversized t-shirt, cuz that was what you wore when lounging in a moonlit pool…

He was a good guy. Short, unimpressive, I had no ill will towards him, but sometimes I wished that a rogue meteor would destroy him. And whenever I thought that I swapped him for me at the moment before impact because I knew it was a bad thing to think…every day.

She drifted over and touched him on the cheek for a second then excused herself to go do whatever it is that women do when they excuse themselves. I made the world’s most pained yet successful effort to not look when she exited the pool. I didn’t need to look. The image of her body, her hips, her walk were permanently burned into my brain. Still, a refresher image would have been nice.

“Hey babe, turn on the light when you come back, hey? It’s crazy dark in here. I can’t see a thing.”

I wasn’t looking, but I felt her aura droop a little bit. Who the fuck wants a light on at a time like this? [And there’s me under that meteor again]

We sat in silence for a few moments, not much to say. We didn’t NOT get along, but she was the unifier. Without her, we’d never have a reason to be in the same room, let alone the same part of town.

And as it usually goes, because I have to kill uncomfortable silences, I ask, “So, you heard that new Machinedrum album yet? Good stuff.”

He responded with a regretful negative and we prattled on about this and that for a few minutes that felt like a thousand hours.

I woke up before she came back.

OkChillOut

From the Lost Files of OkCupid Correspondances:
[This happened. The name has been changed to protect the unhappy person. She mentioned in her profile that one of the things she was doing with her time is "trying to figure out men." She clearly should have been trying how to figure out how to communicate with people.]

Me:
Don't overthink men. Then we become pretty easy to understand. That may seem rather reductive, but we're really just simple animals that act on impulse and a few tens of thousands of years of genetic programming.
[Feel free to say I'm wrong. Maybe I did deserve this immediate dressing down?]

TouchedByAnUncle:
"a few tens of thousands of years of genetic programming. "
[Nice cut and paste control.]

You sound like one of those stereotypical idiotic, whiny, basement-dwelling, pathetic excuse-filled, misogynistic, MRA, grown Boys. You know what you can do with your "all men act on impulse because of our DNA" masturbation fantasy? Yeah I'll help you stick it up there- Oh sorry, I forgot the lube. I guess my evolutionary programming must have forced me to forget it(or maybe it was my degree in evolutionary biology)- you know how women are! Oh no you don't. That's why you like to harass strangers on an online dating site :D 
[Full Disclosure: I did live in a basement once. And I don't know what an MRA is.]

Me:
Wow, you sound sweet. If you were a Care Bear you'd be Tender Heart Bear. We should cuddle sometime. 
[Nothing difuses psychosis like sarcasm. Right?]

TBAU:
How the fuck do you block people on this site?!
[It's right there on the screen. Clearly her righteous indignation blinded her to such an obvious button.]
Oh good. Now I see the "Block him" button has reappeared. Irony much, polygamist?
[Seriously though, I don't have the energy for polygamy. I can barely commit to caring for myself emotionally.]

Me:
It's a shame that you weren't properly socialized as a child. 

[And that's that. It was a short but sweet interaction. Some people you see and think, "How is the hell is s/he single?" and others you know immediately and they end up on the receiving end of a long, drawn out, "Oooooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhh....yeah. I can see why s/he's single."]