"So, yeah," I finished. I took a sip of now-tepid chocolate coffee, and placed the over-sized cup back on its saucer. She looked back at me from over our half-eaten dessert for a moment.
You're obsessed.
I thought about that for a brief moment. "Yeah, maybe I was."
Do you think you were obsessed, Mighty Hunter?
The question comes from a different woman, in a different place and time. For one, there's no coffee. I wish there were some; I need a cup to fidget with.
"I guess so," I finally answer, not really looking at the questioner, not really looking away. I hurry to qualify that last statement with declarations of love, tempered with heavy doses of realism. She lets me finish: prim, composed, her face looking to my like a mask. I hate that, and almost tell her so.
Can I tell you what I think? I relent.
And she does. She tells me what she remembers of beginnings, and of endings prior to that. She recalls tales of my anger, and my happiness soon after. I listen. I nod.
I sit and stare at my computer screen. Long moments pass. The heater kicks on, crackling like metal corn kernels popping in the heat it makes for itself. I hate this part. What have I learned? What will I do differently? How emo will I sound? How false will it be when I try to end this post on a positive note?
I yawn. I proofread. I make a minor correction or two. I schedule my post for tomorrow morning. I schedule my life for then, too.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Not Dead. Also, A Few Snippets from Recent Conversations, Hopefully Illustrating My Writing Ability.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
I'm Pretty Sure This Is The Cat That Hangs Out At The Open-Air Coffee Shop Near My Building. Lucky Bastard.
The rats were eating my brain this morning, in a big, big way, so I decided that the best way to clear my head was to actually get out of my apartment. Coffee, maybe a doughnut. Top Pot, then. Fine. FINE. Get dressed, get out of the apartment. GET OUT OF THE APARTMENT.
Fine, stop yelling at me, me. Jeez.
I gather my stuff and wits together, and wander outside. About a block away from the building, I turn around and come back. I'm not into this after all. Not fit for human contact, anyway. I'll just hole myself up in my apartment and wait for the day to end.
I get back to my building, and see a cat in the hallway outside my door.
"Hi there," I call to the cat as I enter, scoping him up in the process. "What's your name?" George the Outdoor Cat, his tag replies. "Hello, George." Mrowr.
I call the phone number stamped helpfully onto George's tag and leave a rambling message with the voice mail that answers, petting George all the while. He rolls over on his back and closes his eyes, apparently happy with the turn his life has taken up to this point.
For the next half hour, I pet and pat him as he curls around my legs and looks up at me, mrowring as cats will. He seems well taken care-of for an outdoor cat: his short, black fur mats only a little on his belly, and he most likely supplements his foraging with regular meals from soft-hearted folks around the neighborhood. He's very friendly, too, and doesn't struggle to get away when I pick him up and hold him.
I eventually decide that I can't sit around and wait for George's owners to call back (because, who knows when that would be), so we go outside and I let him go. "Be safe, George," I tell him. "Maybe I'll see you again if you come around." Mrowr.
I go to Top Pot. Have a coffee. Munch on a doughnut. Finish reading my short story. And head back to my apartment.
George greets me from the front stoop of the building. Mrowr.
"Hi, George!" I'm equal parts surprised, aghast, and delighted. "You're going to make me buy you food, aren't you?" MROWR. "Okay, wait here, and I'll be right back." I start to trot off, and something makes me turn around.
THE CAT IS FOLLOWING ME. Well, shit.
I hurry to the convenience store right across the street, buy a can of cat food and a few other things, and leave to store... to find that George has made another friends outside the store. A woman outside seems concerned, like me, and is talking about driving the cat to the address stamped on George's tag. This is fine with me. I'll save the cat food for when George finds his way back.
A few moments later, George's owner calls me back.
Is he still with you?
"Nope, a woman who lives across the street from my building was going to take him back to your place about ten minutes ago."
Okay. I'm surprised he got all the way down to your area. He doesn't normally got that far.
He does now. "Well, he should be getting home soon."
We'll keep an eye out for him. Thanks for calling and letting us know where he was.
Fine, stop yelling at me, me. Jeez.
I gather my stuff and wits together, and wander outside. About a block away from the building, I turn around and come back. I'm not into this after all. Not fit for human contact, anyway. I'll just hole myself up in my apartment and wait for the day to end.
I get back to my building, and see a cat in the hallway outside my door.
"Hi there," I call to the cat as I enter, scoping him up in the process. "What's your name?" George the Outdoor Cat, his tag replies. "Hello, George." Mrowr.
I call the phone number stamped helpfully onto George's tag and leave a rambling message with the voice mail that answers, petting George all the while. He rolls over on his back and closes his eyes, apparently happy with the turn his life has taken up to this point.
For the next half hour, I pet and pat him as he curls around my legs and looks up at me, mrowring as cats will. He seems well taken care-of for an outdoor cat: his short, black fur mats only a little on his belly, and he most likely supplements his foraging with regular meals from soft-hearted folks around the neighborhood. He's very friendly, too, and doesn't struggle to get away when I pick him up and hold him.
I eventually decide that I can't sit around and wait for George's owners to call back (because, who knows when that would be), so we go outside and I let him go. "Be safe, George," I tell him. "Maybe I'll see you again if you come around." Mrowr.
I go to Top Pot. Have a coffee. Munch on a doughnut. Finish reading my short story. And head back to my apartment.
George greets me from the front stoop of the building. Mrowr.
"Hi, George!" I'm equal parts surprised, aghast, and delighted. "You're going to make me buy you food, aren't you?" MROWR. "Okay, wait here, and I'll be right back." I start to trot off, and something makes me turn around.
THE CAT IS FOLLOWING ME. Well, shit.
I hurry to the convenience store right across the street, buy a can of cat food and a few other things, and leave to store... to find that George has made another friends outside the store. A woman outside seems concerned, like me, and is talking about driving the cat to the address stamped on George's tag. This is fine with me. I'll save the cat food for when George finds his way back.
A few moments later, George's owner calls me back.
Is he still with you?
"Nope, a woman who lives across the street from my building was going to take him back to your place about ten minutes ago."
Okay. I'm surprised he got all the way down to your area. He doesn't normally got that far.
He does now. "Well, he should be getting home soon."
We'll keep an eye out for him. Thanks for calling and letting us know where he was.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Snack Foods and Friendship: Two Great Tastes That Taste Great Together. (That Sounded Better In My Head.)
Whether true or not, I consider my hometown The Snack Food Capitol of the USA If Not The World. There are potato chip factories, pretzel factories, mini-cakes and pies factories, ice cream factories, iced tea and cola factories... Is it any wonder I was overweight? (Yep, I'm making that my excuse for eating too much in general and not exercising.)
I actually miss this the most about my hometown. The snack food was abundant and GOOD. We're talking AMAZING. Oh sure, the potato chips out here in the Pacific Northwest are pretty good and crunchy and salty and blah blah blah. But if they ever met Grandma Utz's kettle cooked potato chips, they'd run home crying to their mama.
(OH MY GOD I CAN GET THREE BAGS OF THOSE CHIPS DELIVERED TO ME FOR UNDER $12. CLICK.)
(OH MY GOD A THREE POUND BOX OF THESE CHIPS ONLY COSTS A DOLLAR MORE. CLICKCLICKCLICK.)
(They're cooked in 100% LARD, people, that's way THEY ARE SO GOOD.)
(Where was I? Oh right, snack foods.)
So, you can only imagine my immense delight when I opened my front door and saw a LARGE box addressed to me from two friends, J&K, from back home. I squeeed.
Yes, I actually squeed. I'm pretty sure I squeed liked a 12-year-old girl who has just scored back-stage passes to a Jonas Brothers concert.
Because inside the box I found the following WONDERFUL THINGS:
So, yeah, that was pretty fucking awesome. J&K, if you're reading this? Thank you ever so much. I'll be reciprocating soon and very soon. I hear you like salmon. We have a lot of it here.
I actually miss this the most about my hometown. The snack food was abundant and GOOD. We're talking AMAZING. Oh sure, the potato chips out here in the Pacific Northwest are pretty good and crunchy and salty and blah blah blah. But if they ever met Grandma Utz's kettle cooked potato chips, they'd run home crying to their mama.
(OH MY GOD I CAN GET THREE BAGS OF THOSE CHIPS DELIVERED TO ME FOR UNDER $12. CLICK.)
(OH MY GOD A THREE POUND BOX OF THESE CHIPS ONLY COSTS A DOLLAR MORE. CLICKCLICKCLICK.)
(They're cooked in 100% LARD, people, that's way THEY ARE SO GOOD.)
(Where was I? Oh right, snack foods.)
So, you can only imagine my immense delight when I opened my front door and saw a LARGE box addressed to me from two friends, J&K, from back home. I squeeed.
Yes, I actually squeed. I'm pretty sure I squeed liked a 12-year-old girl who has just scored back-stage passes to a Jonas Brothers concert.
Because inside the box I found the following WONDERFUL THINGS:- a half-dozen whoopie pies: three chocolately cakey, and three pumpkiny cakey,
- two half-gallons of Turkey Hill iced tea, one regular and one peach,
- two DIFFERENT varieties of Tastykakes (Butterscotch Krimpets and Peanut Butter Kandy Kakes), and
- a 16 oz. bag of Snyder's of Hanover pretzels. (Yes, I'm aware that you can get these pretzels anywhere in the US, but they STARTED NEAR MY HOMETOWN YOUR JEALOUSY IS SHOWING NANNY NANNY BOO BOO.) (Also, please note that this picture was taken the day that I received the package and I'm already down one whoopie pie and the bag of pretzels has already been opened. Ahem.)
So, yeah, that was pretty fucking awesome. J&K, if you're reading this? Thank you ever so much. I'll be reciprocating soon and very soon. I hear you like salmon. We have a lot of it here.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Another Post Inspired By My Therapy Session. Because My Mental And Social Health Is Important, and Should Be Important To You.
I dropped a few bombshells on my therapist at today's session:
When she asked why I only try to tell her what I think she wants to hear, I responded that I felt she judged me when I didn't. Because, really? I think everyone judges me, or would judge me if I tried to show them the real me (whoever that is). I mean, I judge EVERYONE ALL THE TIME. So why should I think that anyone else is any different? So, despite the fact that I judge just about everyone else around me on a regular basis, I try to prevent others from doing the same to me by presenting myself as the kind of person that they would instinctively like, or at least think favorably of. This leads, predictably, to ALL SORTS OF COMPLICATIONS when the demeanor slips and I show myself as I really am. I've ingrained this strategy so deeply that I can't stop. It takes a certain level of trust that I simply don't feel that I have to let people see me as I am.
Do you think that I judge you when we talk in therapy, Mighty Hunter?
Her question caught me off-guard. "I really have no idea."
Why don't you ask me?
I sighed and covered my face with my hands. "Fine, do you judge me?"
No.
I didn't believe her, and told her so. This lead to a deeper discussion about what that meant, and that discussion resulted in her essentially telling me that she has no reason to judge me, that we have a relationship of sorts, and that she's invested in seeing me grow away from the old coping mechanisms that don't work and developing new ways of dealing with the world and myself.
When I dropped the last bombshell ("I only go to therapy so that I can say that I go to therapy"), she said a few things that made me smile:
If all you wanted was a therapist to go to so that you could say you go therapy, you could find an easier one to go to than one who asks you to sit with your feelings. You could go to a life coach, and talk about your job search, and you could say that you go to therapy that way.
And:
I think that you know that the way you deal with the world doesn't work for you, and that you want to change, and so you come to therapy to work on this. Plus, saying that you come to therapy to say that you go to therapy, at the very least, opens some doors for us to examine and explore, so that we can learn why you think this way.
Is this a breakthrough session for me? Much too soon to tell. Will I go back next week? Yeah, I will. There really wasn't any doubt around that. At the very least, it's practice for trusting people and being a more authentic me.
Besides, what else am I going to do with that hour? Might as well put it to good use.
- I didn't trust her,
- I hate trying to sit with my feelings because I don't think I'm very good at it,
- I often tell her what I think she wants to hear (so that she thinks I'm making progress), and
- the only reason I go to therapy is so I can say that I go to therapy.
When she asked why I only try to tell her what I think she wants to hear, I responded that I felt she judged me when I didn't. Because, really? I think everyone judges me, or would judge me if I tried to show them the real me (whoever that is). I mean, I judge EVERYONE ALL THE TIME. So why should I think that anyone else is any different? So, despite the fact that I judge just about everyone else around me on a regular basis, I try to prevent others from doing the same to me by presenting myself as the kind of person that they would instinctively like, or at least think favorably of. This leads, predictably, to ALL SORTS OF COMPLICATIONS when the demeanor slips and I show myself as I really am. I've ingrained this strategy so deeply that I can't stop. It takes a certain level of trust that I simply don't feel that I have to let people see me as I am.
Do you think that I judge you when we talk in therapy, Mighty Hunter?
Her question caught me off-guard. "I really have no idea."
Why don't you ask me?
I sighed and covered my face with my hands. "Fine, do you judge me?"
No.
I didn't believe her, and told her so. This lead to a deeper discussion about what that meant, and that discussion resulted in her essentially telling me that she has no reason to judge me, that we have a relationship of sorts, and that she's invested in seeing me grow away from the old coping mechanisms that don't work and developing new ways of dealing with the world and myself.
When I dropped the last bombshell ("I only go to therapy so that I can say that I go to therapy"), she said a few things that made me smile:
If all you wanted was a therapist to go to so that you could say you go therapy, you could find an easier one to go to than one who asks you to sit with your feelings. You could go to a life coach, and talk about your job search, and you could say that you go to therapy that way.
And:
I think that you know that the way you deal with the world doesn't work for you, and that you want to change, and so you come to therapy to work on this. Plus, saying that you come to therapy to say that you go to therapy, at the very least, opens some doors for us to examine and explore, so that we can learn why you think this way.
Is this a breakthrough session for me? Much too soon to tell. Will I go back next week? Yeah, I will. There really wasn't any doubt around that. At the very least, it's practice for trusting people and being a more authentic me.
Besides, what else am I going to do with that hour? Might as well put it to good use.
Monday, November 9, 2009
One of Us Always Tells the Truth, and One of Us Always Lies
I'm a liar.
And, honestly (ha!), I want to end this post right now. In fact, I've started three or four different sentences in the past five minutes and all of them seemed fake. I'm sitting at my desk, sweating after my run this morning, wishing I could take a shower, just step away from the computer, anything so I don't have to talk about this.
I don't really talk about it, anyway. I mean, I've told a couple people straight out, but it almost always sounds like an excuse to just do whatever I want. "I'm a liar, so don't trust me since I'm just going to act selfishly and tell you whatever you want to hear so that I can convince you that I'm the kind of person that you would like."
It's disingenuous, of course. People eventually learn that it's easier to tell the truth about themselves before they get into trouble, but I never did. My young adult self learned that it didn't really matter whether I lied or told the truth about something bad that I did, because the result always seemed the same: I'd get yelled at. There was no, "I'm glad you told me. Please go to your room until I calm down enough to talk about this with you, and we can decide together what needs to be done." (Does this even happen? Am I concocting some fantasy parental unit that thinks and acts this way?)
No, I always felt I was punished whether I told the truth or lied, except that there was a chance that the lie wouldn't be found out. So I made myself get "good" at lying. And never grew out of it.
Typing this out reminds me of this post I read months ago. Some ass (though I didn't think he was an ass at the time) wrote a long, moderately articulate manifesto on honesty and what it meant to him to be honest. He even referenced that Billy Joel song that I'll bet you can't get out of your head starting right now. Turns out, oh irony of ironies, that he had been found out in a major fucking lie himself. Which is apparently what prompted the post in the first place. And which destroyed his credibility to me. TO ME, of all people. A self-proclaimed liar.
Should I come clean, then? Should I detail, in broad strokes, why I'm talking about myself as a liar? Does what happened to bring on this post, what I brought on myself, matter?
And yet, what do I have to lose? A few blog readers, a few followers on Twitter, and my pride for a while. I'm not sure if I'm presenting myself here in the most honest way possible, anyway. I'm telling a lot of stories about myself (and those are true, by the way), but I'm picking and choosing those stories, and telling them in a way that makes me look real and honest and fair in my portrayal of everyone involved. I try not to spin, but maybe by not spinning I'm presenting myself in a way that isn't honest to myself. Maybe I should just be selfish and rant incoherently about how wronged I felt, or how everyone is so unfair to me.
Fuck that. That doesn't do anything for anyone, except massage my ego and make me feel falsely better about myself for awhile.
I'm stalling. Sigh. Okay. Here it is.
Fact: I participated in a flirtation with a very good friend of my ex-girlfriend. I initiated it, truth be told, but was surprised to find that it was reciprocated. The flirtation got out of hand rather quickly, and I did nothing to stop it. In fact, I rather liked it.
Fact: Despite any and all evidence available to me, I still had strong feelings for my ex. I was jealous of the time she spent with other (male) friends, and told her so on one occasion. I would tell her that I loved her (still!) and she would respond by saying that she didn't love me anymore. She might have wanted to be my friend, but I was not happy with that.
Fact: My ex's friend eventually told my ex what was going on. I don't know the specifics of their conversation, but the results seem to be that I have lost any sort of relationship with either of them.
Ultimately, though, none of this matters (especially since I've really only hurt myself in this endeavor, as I believe the two women above are still friends). My admission after the fact does not change anything that came before, does not make me a better person, and should not illicit any sympathy. It takes real strength to 'fess up beforehand, not ask for forgiveness after you've been found out.
Will this event change me, make me a more honest person? Did any of the unspoken things that I've done before this manage to do that?
UPDATE: The only thing this article was missing when I first published it was an apology or two. I believe I didn't think to do this because, well, actually I have no idea why I didn't do this. I guess my excuse would have been because the wronged parties would never see it anyway. Which, actually, is no excuse.
To my ex: You gave me every indication that you were no longer interested in me in the way that I was still interested in you, but I didn't want to hear it. And then you found out that I was flirting with a good friend of yours. I practically deified you when we were together, and then acted selfishly and immaturely when we broke up. All of these things disrespected you. Though I doubt we will ever have any sort of relationship again, I'm very sorry for all of this.
To my ex's friend: I acted irresponsibly with your feelings. You are going through a very tough time, and I took advantage of that by flirting with you. Telling you that I still had feelings for your good friend assuaged some guilt for me, but I'm sure made everything I said to you hurt more. I should have been a real man and stopped, but I liked the attention, and convinced myself that you liked it just as much as I did. Though I don't believe that this will change anything between us, I'm very sorry I led you on.
And, honestly (ha!), I want to end this post right now. In fact, I've started three or four different sentences in the past five minutes and all of them seemed fake. I'm sitting at my desk, sweating after my run this morning, wishing I could take a shower, just step away from the computer, anything so I don't have to talk about this.
I don't really talk about it, anyway. I mean, I've told a couple people straight out, but it almost always sounds like an excuse to just do whatever I want. "I'm a liar, so don't trust me since I'm just going to act selfishly and tell you whatever you want to hear so that I can convince you that I'm the kind of person that you would like."
It's disingenuous, of course. People eventually learn that it's easier to tell the truth about themselves before they get into trouble, but I never did. My young adult self learned that it didn't really matter whether I lied or told the truth about something bad that I did, because the result always seemed the same: I'd get yelled at. There was no, "I'm glad you told me. Please go to your room until I calm down enough to talk about this with you, and we can decide together what needs to be done." (Does this even happen? Am I concocting some fantasy parental unit that thinks and acts this way?)
No, I always felt I was punished whether I told the truth or lied, except that there was a chance that the lie wouldn't be found out. So I made myself get "good" at lying. And never grew out of it.
Typing this out reminds me of this post I read months ago. Some ass (though I didn't think he was an ass at the time) wrote a long, moderately articulate manifesto on honesty and what it meant to him to be honest. He even referenced that Billy Joel song that I'll bet you can't get out of your head starting right now. Turns out, oh irony of ironies, that he had been found out in a major fucking lie himself. Which is apparently what prompted the post in the first place. And which destroyed his credibility to me. TO ME, of all people. A self-proclaimed liar.
Should I come clean, then? Should I detail, in broad strokes, why I'm talking about myself as a liar? Does what happened to bring on this post, what I brought on myself, matter?
And yet, what do I have to lose? A few blog readers, a few followers on Twitter, and my pride for a while. I'm not sure if I'm presenting myself here in the most honest way possible, anyway. I'm telling a lot of stories about myself (and those are true, by the way), but I'm picking and choosing those stories, and telling them in a way that makes me look real and honest and fair in my portrayal of everyone involved. I try not to spin, but maybe by not spinning I'm presenting myself in a way that isn't honest to myself. Maybe I should just be selfish and rant incoherently about how wronged I felt, or how everyone is so unfair to me.
Fuck that. That doesn't do anything for anyone, except massage my ego and make me feel falsely better about myself for awhile.
I'm stalling. Sigh. Okay. Here it is.
Fact: I participated in a flirtation with a very good friend of my ex-girlfriend. I initiated it, truth be told, but was surprised to find that it was reciprocated. The flirtation got out of hand rather quickly, and I did nothing to stop it. In fact, I rather liked it.
Fact: Despite any and all evidence available to me, I still had strong feelings for my ex. I was jealous of the time she spent with other (male) friends, and told her so on one occasion. I would tell her that I loved her (still!) and she would respond by saying that she didn't love me anymore. She might have wanted to be my friend, but I was not happy with that.
Fact: My ex's friend eventually told my ex what was going on. I don't know the specifics of their conversation, but the results seem to be that I have lost any sort of relationship with either of them.
Ultimately, though, none of this matters (especially since I've really only hurt myself in this endeavor, as I believe the two women above are still friends). My admission after the fact does not change anything that came before, does not make me a better person, and should not illicit any sympathy. It takes real strength to 'fess up beforehand, not ask for forgiveness after you've been found out.
Will this event change me, make me a more honest person? Did any of the unspoken things that I've done before this manage to do that?
UPDATE: The only thing this article was missing when I first published it was an apology or two. I believe I didn't think to do this because, well, actually I have no idea why I didn't do this. I guess my excuse would have been because the wronged parties would never see it anyway. Which, actually, is no excuse.
To my ex: You gave me every indication that you were no longer interested in me in the way that I was still interested in you, but I didn't want to hear it. And then you found out that I was flirting with a good friend of yours. I practically deified you when we were together, and then acted selfishly and immaturely when we broke up. All of these things disrespected you. Though I doubt we will ever have any sort of relationship again, I'm very sorry for all of this.
To my ex's friend: I acted irresponsibly with your feelings. You are going through a very tough time, and I took advantage of that by flirting with you. Telling you that I still had feelings for your good friend assuaged some guilt for me, but I'm sure made everything I said to you hurt more. I should have been a real man and stopped, but I liked the attention, and convinced myself that you liked it just as much as I did. Though I don't believe that this will change anything between us, I'm very sorry I led you on.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Closed for the foreseeable future. Perhaps only a few days. Perhaps much, much longer.
UPDATE: I'm taking today and the weekend off. I sometimes take breaks, and don't often announce them (since, honestly, I don't have a lot to say much of the time). This is something a little different.
Let's just say that I'm trying to get my head on straight. Wish me luck.
UPDATE: I'm taking today and the weekend off. I sometimes take breaks, and don't often announce them (since, honestly, I don't have a lot to say much of the time). This is something a little different.
Let's just say that I'm trying to get my head on straight. Wish me luck.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Secret World, Part Two (Most Likely the Part You've Been Waiting For.)
This post continues a story that I've begun here. Please start there if you haven't already.
That wave,
Pulled me right overboard,
Into permanent orgasm, emotional action painting.
I flew down to the bottom of the sea
Where I questioned the fishes all about it.
I was in heaven,
Address: Cloud Eleven.
They danced and laughed, spelling all I fell into was love.
— XTC, "That Wave"
I'm not even sure how, or under what pretext, I managed to get to The Redhead's room that night. I suppose we told each other that we were going to "study" for that class we shared. For my part, I actually thought we might be; I had my backpack with books and stuff and everything. I was totally prepared. To study.
Clearly, I was a sheltered little boy, fresh off the metaphorical farm.
I think I may have even opened up the textbook at one point. Or maybe that's just wishful thinking on my part. I do remember sitting on her bed, though, making out with her, putting my trumpet playing skills to good use (yes, with kissing; be patient, I figure it out). We were apparently so active that we forced her Taiwanese roommate out of a sound sleep, and didn't stop even then until she started CRYING. I actually did feel bad for her roommate. Eventually.
The Redhead talked her roommate down, and we left soon after. And had a talk in her dorm's lounge. I'm sure it was one of those serious "I like you, you like me, let's spend time together exploring each-other's bodies" talks that take place among young lovers. Truth be told, this was the first time that I had had one of these talks. I'm sure it was exciting for me. One for the baby book, as it were.
And so, that's how it began. We became A Thing. From what I understand about being A Thing, it's a sort of relationship where we act all friendly-like in public, never fully admitting to a relationship, and get naked in private and roll around on squeaky beds trying not to wake up the other roommate. Mostly, we consummated our Thingness in her room, so these private activities needed to wait until the roommate was out of town for the evening or weekend. Decorum and prudence were out watchwords. At least now.
Our Thing was quite a lot of fun. And, I'll admit, educational. I learned quite a bit about sex in general (though it was mostly theory), and oral sex in particular. Yes, at my, um, request, we restricted our activities to cunnilingus, fellatio, and "69". I was affeared, not of STDs, but of babies. (I typed that sentence, and then shook my head sadly.)
Did I mention this was the first sex of any kind I'd had? I should probably mention that as some point. You know, in case it wasn't painfully obvious.
Still, despite all the fun I had, I believe I inadvertently learned some not-so-true things about sex and what women do and do not like. For instance:
What started off as a good thing eventually became complicated by my, well, lack of maturity.
More to come.
That wave,
Pulled me right overboard,
Into permanent orgasm, emotional action painting.
I flew down to the bottom of the sea
Where I questioned the fishes all about it.
I was in heaven,
Address: Cloud Eleven.
They danced and laughed, spelling all I fell into was love.
— XTC, "That Wave"
I'm not even sure how, or under what pretext, I managed to get to The Redhead's room that night. I suppose we told each other that we were going to "study" for that class we shared. For my part, I actually thought we might be; I had my backpack with books and stuff and everything. I was totally prepared. To study.
Clearly, I was a sheltered little boy, fresh off the metaphorical farm.
I think I may have even opened up the textbook at one point. Or maybe that's just wishful thinking on my part. I do remember sitting on her bed, though, making out with her, putting my trumpet playing skills to good use (yes, with kissing; be patient, I figure it out). We were apparently so active that we forced her Taiwanese roommate out of a sound sleep, and didn't stop even then until she started CRYING. I actually did feel bad for her roommate. Eventually.
The Redhead talked her roommate down, and we left soon after. And had a talk in her dorm's lounge. I'm sure it was one of those serious "I like you, you like me, let's spend time together exploring each-other's bodies" talks that take place among young lovers. Truth be told, this was the first time that I had had one of these talks. I'm sure it was exciting for me. One for the baby book, as it were.
And so, that's how it began. We became A Thing. From what I understand about being A Thing, it's a sort of relationship where we act all friendly-like in public, never fully admitting to a relationship, and get naked in private and roll around on squeaky beds trying not to wake up the other roommate. Mostly, we consummated our Thingness in her room, so these private activities needed to wait until the roommate was out of town for the evening or weekend. Decorum and prudence were out watchwords. At least now.
Our Thing was quite a lot of fun. And, I'll admit, educational. I learned quite a bit about sex in general (though it was mostly theory), and oral sex in particular. Yes, at my, um, request, we restricted our activities to cunnilingus, fellatio, and "69". I was affeared, not of STDs, but of babies. (I typed that sentence, and then shook my head sadly.)
Did I mention this was the first sex of any kind I'd had? I should probably mention that as some point. You know, in case it wasn't painfully obvious.
Still, despite all the fun I had, I believe I inadvertently learned some not-so-true things about sex and what women do and do not like. For instance:
- All women love giving oral sex and will absolutely do it for hours on end without a break.
- All women like the taste of semen (regardless of the man's diet) and will always swallow.
- All women will make out for hours on end without the prospect of sex in sight, and will totally not become frustrated when the man decides he's not into having sex that particular evening.
What started off as a good thing eventually became complicated by my, well, lack of maturity.
More to come.
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