I guess that I’ve been trying to turn the tables, to change the order of things. I like the idea of approaching my sexuality in a masculine way. Not that I believe thar men are never hurt or used or betrayed, I’m sure that they are, yet I was thinking that I could just have sexual relationships based on a text message or two, getting it and getting on with things, like guys do. I wanted to adopt a sort of consumer mentality. It’s out there, it’s enough to just be present to take part. This behavior is quite addictive. Once you start you are not so sure when to stop. Because you like having sex. Because you feel momentarily better about yourself while some man whose name you will not remember is pumping you up with…nothingness? More or less.
I told him that I would take the 5:30 train. I was ready to go so I took an earlier train. I hate to be late. It throws me off balance. Meeting strangers with the intention of fucking them is dangerous business. I prefer to be ahead of time, safely attached to a wine glass in a corner bar, to watch what comes to me. Not the contrary.
I don’t usually meet someone right away. I usually spend a week or so getting virtually acquainted. I’m good at deciphering people through their words, through what they say and what they don’t say. Emails and text messages are like dating, working up to the point where intimacy is a possibility. In my life, things have been incredibly bleak since September. Sometimes I break my own self-imposed rules. Sometimes when I feel lower than a turd on the sidewalk. Like lately.
He began sending messages, turn left outside of the train station, walk up the hill, as if I was going to walk to his home in the dark. By myself. Thanks for the gallantry. I told him where I was and waited. He arrived. We walked to his place. He kissed me passionately. We fucked like animals, he shoved himself into my ass and I heard his condom pop like a balloon. Great. He bit the inside of my lip and it still hurts now.
As far as sexual encounters go, it was vigorous, which I appreciate. What I didn’t appreciate one bit was that afterward, as I was catching my breath nestled in his armpit in a sort of mock post-coïtal tenderness, he informed me that there was something, “not right,” about me. Not physically but as a whole. Tears spilled out of my eyes, oddly more embarrassing to me, more intimate than the sum of all the other bodily functions he had witnessed up to that point. I asked myself silently, could what is “not right,” about me be that I can never sleep past four in the morning, that I pour my first glass of wine before seven, that I know anxiety that suffocates me every fucking day? That depression clouds up my existence so much that I can barely see one foot ahead of me? We had planned to spend the night together and I rejoiced at the idea of being away from the heavy atmosphere I now live in, but seeing as how I am flawed in every way known to mankind, he kindly took me home.