Saturday, November 19, 2005

the last post


will be up soon...

Sunday, November 13, 2005

A

She had the name of a Greek goddess. I suppose her parents gave it to her, but this is LA and people name themselves, too. We met at the Viper Room. I’d gone because it is where River Phoenix overdosed. The California of the modern youth, where stars can be born and die.

We had a moment on the beach, like a moment from a film. It was after dark. Santa Monica, with the waves, it seems safer than it is. She sat on my lap, and her hair fell over my face, and I thought I knew why I’d come to California, to LA, to planet earth. I though I knew everything. Life wasn’t about much more than this, my back in the sand, the tiny waist in my hands, the good smelling hair.

She had a kitten; it was dying. Those straight LA suburb streets, tree lined, and the lamps softly illuminating everything, so that if you ever leave there, if you ever go back to what you’d once called home, the realreal darkness, it scares you. There are the hills, the Hollywood sign, houses called bungalows tucked away, and fruit, lemons, oranges, it really grows by accident on trees in backyards.

We’d been to dinner; you carry a pager around until it goes off and your table is ready; then there was the beach; now her apartment, the kitten, very small, gray, in a box. It was misery embodied. The vet couldn’t tell her what was wrong. There was test after test. Blood drawn directly from its shaved belly. Every couple of hours or so, she had to force turkey paste into its mouth. She’d quit her job to take care of it. A makeup artist. There would be other jobs. There would be other kittens.

This one, it wasn’t supposed to be alive. If it could have thought like that, it wouldn’t have wanted to. Sometimes, at least for awhile, it would mew.
I remember when she called, the same night we met, her voice on the phone. My friend, J, we weren’t roommates yet, had not yet fucked, she was over in that late night, we were making noodles, and A called, and J told me: I like her voice, I like her name.

The night of our dinner, of the beach, A never took the kitten out of the box. I guess she was used to it. I couldn’t get off of my mind. She was in her bra and panties, on the bed, a big kind, high off the ground, all comforter and pillow, her body was beautiful. This is why you come to California, everything is perfect, everything except the kitten.

I’d write about it later, turn it into a story. In the story, the narrator goes with the girl to the vet. Indeed, the next morning, I went with A. I held the kitten. It was dry, despondent, light. I thought it was a shame that she was forcing it alive; all these tortures of blood extraction and feeding; it made her, A, ugly to me, naked in her need. In the story, I hold my thumb over its nose. It claws my hand, but weakly. We’re at a light. I say to her: the kitten has died. She asks me What? I hand her the kitten, and I get out of the car.

She wouldn’t let me finish undressing her. I liked her name too. And her voice. I liked the way she looked in her bra and panties, and how she kneeled over me on the beach. I liked the promise of her body; what I could see of her x beneath the panties; that I had to imagine the rest, and that it would come to me. I would touch it, infiltrate it through her, cement myself to the city and to her.

I liked most of California.

I didn’t kill her kitten. But I remember, in the car, with it in my lap, feeling bound by it to her, or by her to it, feeling because of it, I was in something over my head, this girl who wouldn’t let die what no longer pleasured from living. She was pretty beside me, her name, her voice, but there was her desperation. And I began feeling an urge I’d have often afterwards, almost any time there was any kind of real connection, when you get past the surface, when the woman isn’t a picture, isn’t an idea, isn’t just the tips of her hair or the inside of her x, but a full on woman, and what you face is intimacy, and what you mean to do, it is to flee.

Wednesday, November 09, 2005

z

Her theory was that we could go to a mosque and be married; I was leaving that part of the country, Michigan, soon, and after I’d gone, the marriage would be naturally dissolved. Her therapist had told her she needed to have an affair, or so she said. So here she was, working a loophole in her religion, and though I understood her desire to cheat on her husband, a monster as she described him, less so as I begin to intuit, I did not really want to accept why she thought I would.

My wife was in our apartment, several months pregnant, asleep. I’d met z with a friend, M, at a club. M, the tall, not very attractive Australian with lots of money; after my wife and I divorced, he would forsake our friendship to try to seduce her. Of course, she would reject him. That intimacy of friendship one mistakes for a different kind of affection. I’ve never been brave enough to be so blind.

In any case, I meant for him to have z, and I tried to arrange it. This was probably an impulse to have the vicarious experience. This time in my life when I was most settled on being settled. They went out once or twice. She had twins, little boys; her husband, Lebanese, as she was, worked all the time, she said. He hated her. She hated him. She wanted to be out in the world, out of the marriage, but it was complicated.

Sometimes, she would come to our apartment and spend a night or two. There was a mattress I’d put on the living room floor. My wife, the anti-insomniac, asleep by nine, z and I watching television. They were friends, in the way that women sometimes relate like friends without seeming to be really connected.

Will you hold me? she asked.

And afterwards, I told myself and my wife I didn’t know where it would go. I didn’t imagine what could happen. The little kisses on my neck that I could allow to go on for so long because they were so light they felt almost not like kisses at all.

But then it became impossible to pretend I didn’t know.

Come outside, I told her. We stood in the woods, on the path on which I walked our dogs, z and I, and she held me again. She kissed my mouth and told me we had to fuck. I put my hand down the front of her pants, into her panties, I felt the hair, the wet, little else. A thin girl with a neck so tiny it disturbed me to touch, tall and with slightly bulged eyes, fine cheek bones, a pretty mouth.

I drew my hand away. Later, I’d tell myself it went there without conscious effort. That I didn’t know what I was doing. What she was doing.

She knelt on the woodchips and unzipped my pants. It was spring, not overly warm, a mosquito landed on my neck, I could feel it dipping into me, and I wanted not to slap it.

She took out my x, just the tip of it. She looked up at me and she said, This is all we can do for now.

I said nothing and she took me, just a little of me, in her mouth. After a moment, I tried to lift her. I said, You’re degrading yourself, though that is not what I meant.

It was me degrading me.

She didn’t understand my half refusal. Even as I carried her things to her car, loaded her up, told her she must go, she talked about the marriage at the mosque, the way that God would acknowledge us as holy so we could fuck, the way it would fade away and leave us to the rest of our lives.

I told my wife. I confessed it not the way I do here, but like a person who had been overwhelmed, who had gotten in over his head.

z called the next day and my wife told her that she felt betrayed. z said it as my fault, that I’d been looking at her since I met her, that I’d related to her sexually, that even if I hadn’t asked her explicitly, she could see it in my all the time, that throbbing question. My wife hung up.

I wanted to think as my wife did, that z was wrong, that she had projected her desire on to me, but the fact is, I knew then as I know now that I do it, without meaning to, or at least barely meaning to, that many of my interactions with women, are consciously and unconsciously, craftily and instinctually, guided by the desire to seduce.

Saturday, November 05, 2005

l

It may bore you.

She herself may bore you.

She tries not to and this makes it worse. She is too young to know many men who aren’t entranced by the credential of her beauty and the drawing power of her x. Some women almost never outgrow that.

Nude, her breasts are small, her ass slightly slack. You get too old to tell a woman what she wants to hear. This makes her want to hear it more. There are men by the hundreds in any bar, and there is nothing extraordinary about you but your inattention. This is not a tool, but a fact, and your acceptance of it is a meridian. A thing inside of self to fear, like any change.

She comes to your apartment once, twice, three times. She wants to make her father small. She means to take from you what she can mistake for the semblance of his full on acceptance.

This is your green couch and she is small on it, her practiced smiles, the phrases with which she means to shock you, as if you haven’t heard someone so blunt or quick before, but this confidence is a put on, and you’re tired. She needs you to ask her for the gift of her body, but for you it is no gift and so eventually she needs to ask you to ask her, and she goes about all of it like most any girl who has yet to walk through the fires.

But you will not play.

Annoyed, you tell her each time to go. The first time, your hand beneath her bare jeans, on her ass. Lunges, you tell her. Your body won’t keep. It’s not keeping all ready.

What you’re not attracted to in her is not the way her ass feels. Don’t see her wrong. She is that kind of lovely that will begin to creep away at twenty five. But this is her at twenty three.

What the real problem is: you’ve reached the point where you can’t stand a spoiled girl.

And so you see the absolute limit of a bonding. It will begin with a fuck and end with one, little more. There will be the mechanics of it for you, and what will she have then.

But hand on her ass, cold words coming out of your mouth, you know the truth. You know the little lies you tell yourself: that if you stand there with your knife and your bloodlust and she finally throws herself on it, have you done wrong?

Second visit. She works in a Victoria Secret and she asks you to see her panties and bra. She kneels on the bed. How does it look? You can’t see like that any more, the way most men see, not this girl, not at this moment, not most girls. You watch a woman drink a soda and you can imagine the sugar in her blood, in her guts. There are layers even to physical beauty, not to mention the other.

It gets harder for one to be beautiful in front of you.

The attraction is base. That’s not quite the same as saying nothing is there. Her breath is slightly foul, as if from a stomach disorder. The bones of her face are very fine, her cheeks like airbrush inventions. Her waist very narrow; her skin dark and smooth; her eyes prettprety. She takes a good photograph, leaning forward, the first night, her blue shirt, her bared shoulder, eyes down cast, her gentle smirk, but it is all illusion, the picture better than the sum of her, and on the bed in her bra and panties, a pornographer’s dream, and I have the heart of a pornographer, but I do not further undress her. We lie there for a long time in the silence and the dark, my back to her, and she tells me all the secrets she thinks will make me admire her.

You could fuck her then, you almost do, the third night; this time she comes unbidden, and she stumbles through her vision of seduction. You sit above her with your knife, your bloodlust, but beyond the ecstasy of the death itself, you will both be disappointed by what you don’t take here.

Her belly still sunken. Her hips bones still visible. Her x small and slightly open, lines of wet running through the dark cats eye of it; you go in with your fingers, with your tongue. You feel overly somber and you know what this will be like for her, a wound to carry afterwards, a reminder of a man she thought she was taking possession of only to see that she herself had been possessed and left behind.

In the end, you do not fuck. It feels to her like rejection, and she is bitter leaving.

In days, in an email, she’ll tell you that she’s finally agreed to her boyfriend’s proposal, that she’ll marry him. You should wonder as if it is a legitimate question how she’s been broken. You should realize that the apparent virtue of your freezing does not so clearly reflect on your desire to protect any her; in the end you must recognize that it wasn’t for her at all that you weren’t fucking, not really.

In the end, you're always trying to save yourself from something, even the smallest thing...say the ennui of fucking a girl you've already known by type over and over.

Monday, October 31, 2005

M

While you’re fucking she tells you that at the club she was taking meth and this makes you feel accidentally involved in a date rape.

This is a girl I met through an online personal site, as if that would solve a problem. As if a woman chosen that way would prove to be more suited. As if I'm looking for more suited. As if there is any woman who except for through act of will you'd choose to be alone on an island with the rest of your life.The lies we tell ourselves when we're tired.

M is is the noise you create after a bad breakup when you are afraid to be alone with your brain.

She is part of what you do when you think you mean to really really retire, move into the next phase of life, crash land on that island.

She's your first attempt.

She looked much sexier in her picture than she did in real life but she was plenty sexy, a sort of club girl who worked in a vet clinic by day but put on the makeup mask and the hothot clothing at night, a thin girl with a heartbreak story that didn’t match her sex kitten photos, lips pouted to the camera, tongue out and tip bent up along the side of some female friend’s face.

(That's right, I'm looking for the love of my life, a final final love, and that is the picture on which I stop).

It's the middle of the week. She takes me to a place in which I feel too old, an underground club where the music is hard and the kids are jumping up and down. I feel overly tall, overly worked out, a sort of giant, out of place, this mythological land that makes perfect sense to the people that inhabit it.

This girl, her friends, all of them pretty, what am I doing here? What is she doing with me?There's vodka. The walls are black, the floor strange, like particle board, chewed up in places and spongey. This is a better hell, dark and somewhat dirty, but you might choose to be here, just not for long, not for an eternity.

She's in and out of the booth, dancing, her friends, all this sort of conversation, people talking anyway, and we drink and the floor gets blacker and I was ready from when I walked in to be away.

When she asks me to stay the night, I don't know why. Both of us are looking for something we probably shouldn't believe in. Both of us are probably going about it all wrong. She asks me to her bed maybe because she thinks that is how it starts, if it is to start at all. And when it comes down to it, I suppose she is right.

I've alreayd had my ephinany, though. It's not going to work. Not like this. I think I've learned my lessons well and am ready to settle, like anybody who walks out of a building that has burned. I know the value of what I might have again and so I mean to get it quickly and take care of it well, but I'm with this girl because of her picture, and that's not going to cut it.

My realization some time in the club, or mabye in the car on the way to or from it: I'm not going to find HER, whoever she is, if she even is, this way, or that way.

That fine line. On one side, you're a monk. On the other, you are 81vaginas. It's not that you ever cross it. It's just that it can be crossed.

She is sucking my x and I am pulling down the boxer shorts with the elastic band rolled several times to make them snug, and I am wondering vaguely who they belonged to. She's got little plastic packages full of lubricant she squeezes out into her x, telling me that some medication she is on makes her dry. That and the ceiling fan.

It's late. The next time I see her--I return for a jacket that I'll leave by accdient in the morning--we watch cartoons and she eats Capitan Crunch without milk and I feel like the stranger I am, sitting on her couch, wondering how much time has to pass before I can take my jacket and go this time for good.

Anyway, we fucked. I think there is some affection in it, and certainly some pleasure. There are moment, as with any fuck, when you sense that connection you're after. Her eyes fall into yours. Or she kisses you more delicately. My hand is flat on the front side of her hip, the tips of some fingers on her sunken belly, her life right beneath them, all the working mechanics of a full on human being, complete, if you look up--and I do, I always do--with soul and whatever that entails.

And I know what I'm doing. I know it for real. I'm trying to get the feeling of some girl that is gone off of me. The thought of her out of my mind. The way sometimes we try to clean things not with water, not with purity, but with other kinds of stain. You rub dirt over your bloody hands.

And nothing really gets your mind free. This would take a lobotomy, a pill, a bullet.

I'm looking for the love I never fully had, a cave in which to hibernate, a grave in which to rest, but I stop on the sexiest photo I can find. I fuck her more than anything to take possession of her particular appeal, as if after that it will always belong a little bit to me, the way a woman picks a flower so she can annex its beauty to her own.

She tells me she took meth at the club. I'm fucking her. Her ass is small and round and pale. There is a little operation scar on her belly. She told me about before we met. She's got this story of loss, some boy she couldn't see that she should have kept and now she is digging around in the dark for one like him.

In the morning, at the stop light close to my apartment, dawn really, after the night of fucking, I fall asleep sitting in my car, I don't know for how long. I just wake and the light is green and I wonder where I am, and who.

Friday, October 28, 2005

e

That kind of Irish that is black haired. The eyes blue and deep set, the skin pale. You look at her the first time and tell yourself stories that all pretty much end the same way: if you touch her, your life will change.

Rainbows move away so that you never can prove they don’t end in pots of gold, but everybody breaks down up close. The question is not how many lovers you’ve had but why you’ve had them. The question is whether or not the serial fucker is less culpable than the man who is reputedly trying to run down an illusion.

And as for you, you’ve only loved women you fucked—before that, you are capable merely of want—and this is enough to make you believe that you don’t really know how you feel about a woman until after the fucking.

And as for e, we’re fucking in a nearly empty apartment, a place into which I’m about to fully move, as if my life in this new place will be better than my life in the place I’m leaving. There are only a few boxes and the carpet is new and we don’t turn on any lights, such is our guilt, or perhaps our sense of the fragility of the long moment. e is on the floor with her knees by her shoulders.

She is her face; it is extraordinary. She’s been staring at me, frank and curious. From the distance of her admiration, she is the one. Picture her smiling at a Bed Breakfast early morning table. Imagine her in the seat beside you as you drive through some night. She’s cultivating the lines on your face, listening to the ways you nightmare, laughing out loud when you do something silly. She’s holding the hand of your son. She will mourn you when you die. She’s been watching me, and I see her, and I know what she means by it, and all of this is possible.

Up close, when you know her, she’s a mess. She drinks too much, has her second DUI, there are problems with her parents, there have been problems with her men, she is headed for some kind of crash, a series of them.

By the time we meet with intention, I look at her and get a general sense of disaster. The idea of a slow path of destruction.

Before the fucking, I cannot know the love that is broader than want, but that a woman and I don’t have that potential for love, of that I can sometimes feel certain, sometimes even before the first kiss. I look at her and see liability.

This habit of seduction that outlasts the potential on which seduction aught be based.

There are checker boards and checkers, and we play. (You tell yourself, if you sit back and let her come at you, you’re not responsible). Later, we stand in a grocery store, a loaf of bread, a jar of almonds, a post drink late night picnic.

She’s very lovely, nude on the floor of the apartment that will be mine but at the time feels like what it is: an empty and strange place that I will have to learn to inhabit. She’s flexible, little, her breasts are quaking mounds, and she never in that near dark seems to close her eyes. She tells you with them the first time she looks at you that she wants to fuck you, or maybe it is a more general want and this is just where it leads, but now, what her stare means, you don’t know with certainty. In retrospect, it is as if she is trying to make you aware that she is fully conscious, that she knows who she is, who you are, what you are doing, that she wants you to see her seeing you.

Her blue eyes no color at all in the shadow, just open and with the white around them, and her mouth, her pretty lips, later she’ll put them around your x, and later yet, she’ll say about it, I never go down on a guy.

(Later: drunk phone calls, night after night, accusations, declarations, promises, pleading).

She’s brought me a framed picture, something she bought in Czechoslovakia. We’ve been fucking, on the floor, and then with her leaning on the bar, her ass overly thin and disappointing, insubstantial, her face forward, eyes maybe open then too, black hair falling across her pale shoulder blades. While she dresses, I hang the picture, close to where we’ve been.

I like her voice. She is smart and sometimes she talks about things and in such a way that makes even my brain go quiet and reallyreally listen. But you get close and you see the cracks, the problems, the liabilities. There is, after it all, a sense of doom to her, an easy prophecy of a sort of chunk by chunk loss of her, from this world into the next, or into a simple darkness, a beauty that will be broken down, that is on that path all ready. What she is really looking for, staring at, who knows? A savior. A witness. A second opinion.

Monday, October 24, 2005

x, J, (T, A )

The thought process starts almost right now, on this napkin in a bar on this night that is not quite the present.

It goes first to x. Call it a blind date, though that description is not precise. Call her a reporter, though she was not a reporter any longer. She was a good postmodern media mix: Polynesian/Anglo, tall and well breasted, with what we’d call no accent though everybody who doesn’t talk like you has an accent; she called herself a gym rat—there was something unattractive about the phrase—and her sense of humor was sophomoric; her beauty was just a little off so it is fitting to imagine her a broadcasting rather than being broadcast about.

(There was another reporter. This in a foreign country, and there she is well known. Imagine a sharply dressed woman, petite, with perfect hair, a woman who had come to the States, to Atlanta, for her broadcast training; you can see the Mediterranean in her, a pretty but not beautiful woman. Imagine that to walk with her is to have her name shouted out over and over, right past your face, right through you, TM¸ TM! The way people want to be recognized by the recognized. We fucked only briefly and not very deeply, her x so narrow, so shallow, it felt more like a point of victimization than a pleasure, this in the apartment of a a, a friend, if you can call him a friend [we went one Halloween as Caesar and Brutus, me all bloody, and later A would remark of that particular a that the costumes were apropos (a colleague, he’d try to betray me professionally), and I’d tell her not to worry, that that a is one of those men who only wants to be a bully, that however he tried to fuck with me, it was ineffectual; one of those men who resent the power they perceive in other men the way some women resent the beauty they see in their friends, he couldn’t really do me damage—but A was kind to want to notice, this lovely girl with her deep set eyes and that caricature of a stripper’s body, A and I, twelve hours before my flight taking me forever away, we were finally coming clean, and A was pressing and I was pressing, me to her, saying it was meant to be, asking my fingers into her body, though it was daylight and we were outside, Syrian workers leaning into the fence, trying to see what they could, those last desperate hours, there were so many to so goodbye to say that I did not properly say goodbye to much of anyone, and to one I did not say goodbye for real, this haunting girl r who would sometime later follow me to the States and reek all havoc (she would dance under Karma and you know I deserved it) but A, this lovely girl, her tongue (how strange a thing, I’d seen it touching her teeth, seen her mouth, seen her body, for months, thought about it vaguely, and now it was upon me) in my mouth (and how strange it feels to kiss and touch when you reallyreally know that it can go no further, not this day and not tomorrow and, speaking practically, not ever), six months of preamble, of foreplay, you always wonder, or you always should: is this real? Am I here and is it now? this girl in the Mediterranean sun, her flesh damp, her shirt open, and the flight on which you’ll leave now en route to touching down and waiting and we lean against the coarse building wall, there are palm trees and there is the sea and this is a goodbye and if you see it as I do this is like a scene from a love film, though there is no real love, only real longing] and T, that reporter, and me in the apartment of a, a friend that had yet to openly and ineffectively tried to betray me but knew he would, the way all people’s motives and where they’ll lead are known to them if they dig hard enough, A she’s kneeling on the bed, her x too tight, so my x in her mouth, and I think of her moving with me from trendy club to trendy club, where for us there is never an entrance fee, where we never pay for drinks, and I am not her accessory, she really likes me, and in this crowd of youth there is nothing to hide, but in this country of tradition all affairs are dangerous, and my apartment, we cannot go there, so here we are in the bed of a friend, he’ll find the condom wrapper later, and maybe his hate will be born for me then; quite late, I walk her out, past the guard gate to her Range Rover, she is more sure of herself than pretty, she has the ears of half the people, strange power, but I’m with her not because of it but because she is terribly interesting and her breasts stand out sharply from her little body; those nights we walked from club to club, the stain of wine on her breath, and it goes on and on and it goes off.)

And I know who I am. I’ve had the luxury of too many choices; I am a spoiled man. I’m scribbling on a napkin at a bar, making an outline, as if it is more interesting to write about fucking than it is to fuck.

Vodka tonics, and some people say they drink to forget, but sometimes I say I drink to better remember. This bar to I go out of habit; wherever I live, there is such a bar, not far away, familiar, and I feel safe there and most of the time sure. This one is populated primarily by divorcees, or at least women that feel like it, thirty and beyond, for the most part. And here, I stand out. The middle aged men with their bellies pushing against their expensive shirts. Boys show up, but they are too clearly boys in this atmosphere. And I get to straddle the line. I get to appear all grown up but not all grown out; there will be two or three like me in here in a night. And there will be some standout girls. In the club next door, I would fade quickly, though they wouldn’t.

There is nothing here that interests me. Or next door either. Maybe much of anywhere.

I think primarily of the second reporter, that not quite blind date, a place called the Dark Horse, we got very drunk. I was nervous at first, and she never has been.

In the crowd, in that good light, she was aggressive. Kiss me, she said. And I did. There was some game she was playing, trying I think to bowl me over, whatever power that would give me, and I was trying to go almost stride for stride, like a man in the wrong kind of match but trying to fit anyway.

She pushed her hand beneath my beltline. I don’t know what she was trying to prove against me but I am certain this had little if anything to do with attraction. I am not erect or close. All around us are people but I don’t imagine that she’s doing it for there benefit. I don’t imagine she’s doing it for mine.

She tells me to touch her in the same way. I do it, the x completely shaved and only slightly wet, and for whose benefit I touched it I can’t say for certain

There is another girl in the bar, J, my leasing agent, a woman I’d made out with in a different bar a week before, and then, sober, the next day, she’d told me, as I fantasized about how she’d spend her lunch breaks romping with me in my apartment, she told me she was too young for me, which was, of course, another way of saying I was too old for her.

It had never occurred to me that there was such a thing as a woman for whom I was too old. Now it did. Now it does.

Call it a meridian. There is the you that you are before you consider that you’ve actually moved too far away from the next generation to touch it, and there is the you that become when you realize you have. You can trace the lines on my face with the tips of your finger, but I’d never done that before J.

So she’s in the bar, and she’s said hello, and I don’t know what all of this she’s seen. I stand there with my x feeling very limp in small in x’s unfriendly grip and with my hand hanging dead in her pantyless jeans, and I think about J, about her x; I think that I will get close to it, the way I think of it now as well: one untouched x amongst the billions of untouched x’s, some small fraction of the overwhelmingly large group that you will never ever known.

The reporter, x, I walked her to car. We kissed there. In private, she was less aggressive. I knew not to push it. She was going to call me when she got home. She did not. She did not return my call the next day. I let it go. You picture things as butterflies in your hands and you just unfold your fingers.

The first reporter, the people in the streets, she took me from club to club, this little version of fame.

I’m scribbling about them on napkins. There is nothing here that I want, and that is a particularly damning type of frustration, not wanting anything.

My father used to mark the milk carton so I would not drink more than I had been allotted. I remember how it was when I first left the house and had money, and I could walk in the grocery store and buy whatever I wanted. I marvel at it sometimes still, despite all the restrictions I’ve put on myself, not unlike my father’s restrictions, the way it feels to know that anything you want is yours if you choose to take it. I walk the aisles and I could have this or that and all and more and it doesn’t mean as much to me as once it might have.

If I let them put ice in my drinks, I’d crack it with my teeth.

And there is a moment, a blond woman, I’ve seen her before and felt no real attraction, but then she was still and now she is dancing with not grace but abandon, and whatever you call it, she can move in a way not many women can move, and we want many rare things. My glass, it may as well be filled with arsenic and I’d drink it just hard—I’ll never have this woman, and when I do, she will not be enough.

(Most blogs like this end in death of self, depending on what you mean by end, and depending on what you mean by death of self.)

The men, they sit with their sucked in bellies still over their belts, their drinks in arms cocked and forced toward flex, or the skinny boys who look around faux tough, and I stand here, alone as alone as alone as alone. But I know my destiny. I know about the death of us all; I believe in it.

And I know there will be a girl first. In my bed. In my space. In my life for real. All of that again. And I know her name, or so I think. I’m aware of my path, where I’m going, and how I got here, too. I’m standing in bar not really wanting anyone that it seems I might be able to have.

So it seems as if everything is worked out in my mind, but it’s not—I know too that I will have to work hard to not resent the woman who will inevitably grow to represent the conception of death of all other choice, even if it is not choice I think I need.

The peace I can find from walking out of the bar, the peace in fact I feel in so doing, will not always be with me.

And you—youyou—the real you—you’ll be here. You’ll know what it is like, how it feels when you sort of hate who you’ll be more than you sort of hate who you’ve been.
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