In the spaciousness of everything, in all the time and all the things I've yet to know about the Cappo Comedy Writer, to say I didn't expect this was an understatement. I'd deliberately employed a careful cocktail of nonchalance, terribly low expectations and detachment to this endeavor. In fact, I'd even hesitate to call it that as if naming it would bring the Furies upon me. Is it ironic it gets the same treatment as Voldemort? Oh yeah, this whole thing is That Which Shall Not Be Named.
This time around, I read his annual apology with unfettered irritation. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry for everything and how I behaved. Please don't feel like you should respond - I just hope you get this and know that I still think about you and feel awful for what I did," he wrote and after a few minutes of my silence, sent another message adding,"I wanted to say my behavior isn't because I'm this sort of person but other reasons. I'm sorry."
fifty shades of chicken: a parody in cookbook
Every year since 2010, he had returned with an apology. Normally it was a solitary email that never went anywhere. There are many ways to say sorry, but only a few to prove one means it. He never lingered after each one, never when I responded with kindness or some attempt at coaxing him beyond the minimum of contact he allowed himself. Never with an explanation.
I'd surmised after all this time that it was a lot like Lent and penance, all I had to do was watch him flog himself in guilt. Be silent like the wailing wall. Maybe this was really a conversation he was having with himself and I was nothing but a construct he could direct things to.
I waited to be amused, but there was something patently unfunny about it. In fact, I was angry. Terribly so. At myself for having even cared in the first place, though that couldn't be helped now could it? But mostly at him for disturbing my peace.
Beyond his "ghost-bolting" as the Golden Venus would term it, why after all this time, was I angry? I could feel the heat creeping up my cheeks, my hair curling at the flushed warmth. I believed as always that the mystique men inadvertently employ is something women undeservedly bestow them. There is no mystery. At all.
Here was a man who couldn't leave well enough alone, for every selfish reason I could think of. He had sent me the message 4 days before my birthday, right as I was resolutely planning the birthday dinner to end all birthday dinners, right when I all wanted to do was to celebrate pulling through certain even yet unfinished chapters in my life. And now this?
The effect of all this turning was noticeable even at mid-morph. In Mexico, the Lovely Libran looked at me with tempered panic as she withstood the Olympic flirting that occurred in my wake. Well, that and my lack of apology for it. I suppose it
didn't help that Latin men live up to their Rico Suave reputations, and boy did they Suave it up. She tut-tutted in amused horror even whilst we were on a pedicab ride back from one of the cenotes and I'd wistfully commented on how the Mayan driver's labored panting made me miss New Man and how I'd hoped to hear more of THAT when I got back.
She laughed tolerantly at my mischief, still careful to keep a watchful eye on me. I reassured her it was all harmless and that it was likely I'd lost Rotational momentum over the trip and the Thanksgiving holiday. Not so I guess. Instead, my return from Mexico had been greeted with queries from Kentucky, a few atypically tender gifts from the Well Hung Uranian (WHU) once again on his normally scheduled back orbit and a disturbing email from one of the Sewer's former right hand men, the Chocolate Toro. Even B in his coupled state was attentive enough to send me a sweet Thanksgiving message.
As I'm sure it's been pondered, no, I have not lost the queue for the Rotational. Except now what I thought reserved as a Spring Phenomenon seems to have become an All Season occurrence. I had floundered a bit after realizing B was finally coupled, it was transitional floundering but floundering nonetheless. Sadness and happiness sitting side by side. I'd like to be unadorned about that, without nailing myself to the coffin of relationship ineptitude or casting the protective glow of feigned confidence around me.
This is what irritates me about type casting. The roles are limiting. You're either the girl brought home to mother i.e. Jennifer Garner, the perennially sad single girl i.e. Jennifer Aniston, the party babe i.e. Tara Reid, the hard core bitch-slut i.e. too many to mention, etc. - there are multitudes more convenient boxes we get slot into by either ourselves or others. As I'm sure most of our college pictures attest, as well as the hushed up stories we keep from way back when or horror, that loud friend we hope will never visit our current life, we can be all those things to different people at varying stages in our lives. There isn't even an arc of logic we can rely on.
Because life is messy, timelines get diverted and we're individuals who do what we will with what we're given. As women, however, we're exceptionally hyper-conscious about how we come across. We've all been at some point, over-ruled by impressions we anxiously anticipate we've made on others.
2011, and it's the last day of the year. I should perhaps predictably write down some touching thoughts in conclusion, maybe a wrap up of sorts. But the truth is I find all of that dreary. I had no plans tonight, and I confess this with the knowledge that apparently I've acquired a stalker on the blog, who could very well be reading this right now. Yes, a stalker.
Unlike most of my stalkers (obviously you're not living a full and modern life without at least one), this one's female and she reads me with no interest as to the strains of wisdom I painstakingly mill from my quiet yet unusual life. She reads me because she thinks me to be a Jezebel. No, make that Jezebel!!!! The name just begs to be shrieked out loud.
When I first learned she'd furtively observed me for some time, I was annoyed, disturbed, pissed, you know the usual run of emotions attributed to unwelcome observation. Am I writing this for her? No, not really.
But if she does spend the time reading this and more importantly comprehending it - unlikely but let's be magnanimous, I hope that rather than using it for clues of how I am in fact the prominent figure in her betrayal fantasies, it somehow occurs to her that being "Jezebel" is a necessary rite of passage in every strong and authentic woman's life.
When I first read Slim Smith's post three years ago, I wasn't quite sure if it was real. The panic certainly seemed to be, but was this guy serious? I stopped when I realized how most people listen to my own story incredulously. Slightly altered for his own protection, this is what Slim Smith wrote on that fateful night:
"My wife and I are married 3 years - our sex life is "alright" i suppose. A few days ago, I was looking for a book I needed in our spare bedroom, and started looking in the closet only to find a box buried under some clothes that had a silky pouch...which had a large black sex toy in it. I was shocked!
Her ex-boyfriend was black, and even when we were dating I'd make fun about the "size" thing. Still she always said she was ok with how mine was. Usually after we're intimate, she'll hang out in the spare bedroom to watch tv, I just wasn't sure why - now I know!
Yeah, I'm a little hurt she's got it hidden there.. part of me is embarrassed she needs "more". The thing is HUGE. I can't sleep thinking about what I should do. Like, should I confront her about it? Or just forget it and play dumb? Where did she buy it from?? We share all our credit card statements, I think I'd have picked it up if she got it online. Sure, we'd kid around about her maybe seeing her ex if I allowed her to, am I supposed to be grateful it's just a toy instead of an affair? So my questions are:
Guys: what would you do if you were me?
Ladies:any thoughts on why you'd hide something like that from your boyfriend or spouse, instead of just being open about it? "
Was the incident with Kentucky unusual for me? Well..to the extent that setting up a sexual training camp isn't an everyday event for me, yes. But in spirit, not really. I've never really been conscious of myself as a helpful person, that is to say, I only realized how truly helpful I could be when I found myself needing my own particular brand of assistance. Let me explain.
the accidental extremist
Most people who've read this blog are more or less apprised of my history with the Sewer. But briefly, for the benefit of those who don't know, or can't be bothered to get into such a convoluted event in detail, the Sewer was my introduction to life on Pluto.
My descent to Hades came via a man who turned out to be a multiple life living secretly married and secretly bisexual psychopathic sex addict, who entered innocent peoples' lives on a regular basis with the intent to deceive and betray. An incubus in human form. To this day, the Lovely Libran sister calls him Beelzebub, a play upon his real name.
While that all sounds harshly alienating, the truth is he isn't pure evil. Many would disagree, but even as I laid wounded by him, it was clear that only someone so thoroughly broken themselves could go on to hurt others the way he did.
I'd spat out an incredulous, "Show you???," but watching Kentucky blink at me made me realize it actually did make strange sense in the trajectory of our interactions thus far. Hadn't it all been leading up to this moment?
Kentucky shrugged helplessly but almost gave himself whiplash when I said, "Fine. I'll show you. You'll probably learn something. For once." At this point, I'd lost all impulse to sugar coat things. He sidled up eagerly, all 6'4" of him instantly towering over me. "You MAY kiss me, but you may NOT do anything else," I commanded, snapping my fingers with a sit signal, which he immediately does without question. "And, do not forget, my clothes are staying ON."
"How's that supposed to work?!," Kentucky complains. He quickly shelves it after I shot him a warning look and as instructed, tries for a kiss but nervously over-reaches by grabbing me. I slap his hand away again, and after enduring a few minutes of his attention, derisively observe, "You do realize I'm the one kissing you, you're not kissing me." He looks up, "There's a difference?" I rolled my eyes at him, "Yesssss. Pay attention."
A small battle of wills ensues in the next 50 odd minutes. Frustrated, he begs to prove that indeed he too, could be a very generous lover. "And how," I asked while still swatting his hand away from creeping up my thigh, "are you planning to demonstrate that?"
What is that saying - when one door closes, something else opens? Another door, a window, a peephole?? For a moment, I'm sat there pondering if this is at all appropriate to my Rotational and decide it isn't, well, not if your door is a revolving one where there's less open/close and more hopping on or off. I sigh loudly at Kentucky's message, and reply.
It seemed the months of silence had bought Kentucky some courage as he now dared to request an audience with me. On the pretext of owing me a present, he pleaded and wiled his way into a visit. I acquiesce, on condition that he understood any time I spent with him would adhere to a strict Clothes On policy. "Sure, we can hang out," I reply back, "but you need to understand NOTHING else is happening but talk."
He agrees quickly and reassures me it's crystal clear. Hmm, something about all this reminds me of how boys game their way from one level to the next one.
Normally, the pursuit would thrill me. But this isn't your normal chase. For me, it's a distraction. For Kentucky, it was going to be a therapy session. Now he was entering the Lair of the Ruthless, fangs would be bared (mine) and feathers ruffled (his) or gasp, even plucked. I hoped for his sake, he could take it. He bursts into the flat and all I can sadly think of is how I can't take that aggression seriously. He beelines to the couch where I sat flipping through a glossy magazine listlessly. "Oh. You're here," I observe rather indifferently.
Somewhere in the compendium of astro literature, I've read over and over again that one should simply not expect a Libran male to ask you in-depth questions about your life. Frugen #2 exempted, since I suspect he has Virgoan overtones, I've found this to be shockingly true.
It was true with the Libran Environmentalist I'd once dated who bit my head off when I tried to draw him out by sharing stories which I thought, albeit mistakenly, would help relate to his experience. It's also true of two of my Libran male co-workers whose love lives and misadventures I'm so up to date on, I could be their therapot but neither of whom have a clue about mine. And of course, it's true of B.
B, whom I once informed about this blog - since he has one of his own he's since abandoned. It seems puzzling that someone I spent the better part of a year with wouldn't want to ask me about my own writing, even when I once opened that door as I'd kissed him sweetly and said, "I hope you don't mind, I do write about you." He'd twinkled at me, returned the kiss and never asked.
One would think that in his search for commonalities, THE basis that B always purported made for successful relationships, writing would be a bond rather than a non-factor. But there it is. Don't ask, don't tell.
FA on feathers, fangs, furies and all sorts of folly, yes, even the serious kind.
content copyright 2011
Yep, my life, my insanity, my copyright. If you like what you read, let me know :)
Did I use your image & attribute it incorrectly? Sorry! Let me know and I'll take it down. "Sssshhhh" image on blog header by Deborah Azzopardi. It's an amazing print now available thru Ikea.