Last Night.
‘What time’s it now?’
Me: ‘Three.’
‘How would you know?’
Me: ‘It’s when all the losers go home after having stayed out their invites because they couldn’t pick up a lay, and don’t particularly want to pick each other up either.’
Wanted to drop by Mr. Big’s before my pumpkin turned stale, but aside from the fact that I was completely broke and had to find someone to spare me cab fare; I couldn’t bring myself to leave because every time I did, I found myself fascinated with some odd artifact. The worse was the witch hat and the Oochabaga (you may insert any obscure African tribe name) fertility doll. Which was a curved wooden staff that looked like a Moray eel. I ended up walking around with the witch’s hat with pleas for me to cast spells with the fertility doll. It was extremely absurd. And I was doing all of this in an
***
At three, I found myself half-drunk, and reading an email the Boy had just sent me that nearly forced me into tears. I felt compelled to call him. I doubted that he was doing anything, anyway. He had spent much of the evening in an internet café ran by a guy who looked like Osama Bin Laden that made all his customers listen to Middle-Eastern pop tracks and who possibly, consistently, served everyone heavily sugared tea.
He wasn’t doing anything, and he didn’t want to put down the phone. It was absolutely the first time I had to tell him I really had to go, because it was 7 a.m. and my brain was most certainly not functioning anymore, after having gone though a whole range of discussions ranging from how long it took me to reach an orgasm (slightly under a minute with him egging me on) to stupid people that lambaste globalization without thinking. All this while I was drunk, sleepy, and emotional, with the Girl from Ipanema playing in the background.
He’d also bought the Da Vinci code (and was reading it when I called), which I will try to force myself through now –strangely, I think my dad’s borrowed it, as much as he is against it-, since he’s reading it, and also since a lot of people have been comparing it with Umberto Eco’s The Name of the Rose. Which I’ve finally gotten down to reading, courtesy of the G-Spot. It’s proving to be absolutely engaging insofar!
The Boy asked me what my favourite book of the moment was. I doubt he would know who China Melville was, but he’s read Anais Nin, so I referred to Henry and June. His was The Perfume. Some European cult classic with reviews that read relatively dysfunctionally. Sounds like my cup of tea.
We talked about our plans for next year. He wants to travel around
‘Anyway darling, I don’t care what we do, as long as I get to be with you for a relatively long while, and get to have lots of sex.’
(Him)‘We could start in the airport broom closet.’
‘You know what? We should rent a villa on a nice sunny island in one of those
‘I don’t care what we do, as long as…’
‘There’s a lot of sex. I know, I know. Such fond memories.’
(Have I mentioned this before? We must have near locked ourselves up in a hotel room on some obscure tropical island last year for two nights and did nothing but. It was fantastic. Everyone should do that many times in their lives.)
For some odd reason, I told him my perfect wedding would involve a Bentley, and he *laughs* replied as if we would really get married (Oh dear, I don’t think I’ll be able to afford that). Happily Ever After is certainly something I love to fantasize about, and am sure has rubbed off on him lately. I’d tell him to shut up and just pretend along with me every time he became too much of the realist.
But he did then say that he’d not regretted spending everything he did on me. Which he didn’t think was much, but which I had felt, at points, embarrassed about because I thought it was; Plus the fact that he was nearly always accommodating to me.
He makes it so easy to love.
I tired to hang up every time the calling card beeped away an hour and the sky got lighter and I got more exhausted. But for the first time, ever, he told me that I mustn’t, that he did so love to hear my voice and it didn’t matter if I had nothing of worth to say. He’d still want to hear it, because my voice was simply the loveliest thing he’d listened to in ages.
We wondered a lot over how strange the passing of time was. It’s been nearly a year since we met, and neither of us could have expected to much to come out of expecting nothing. We thought it would be a interesting to try and commit and see if anything came out of it, and so it did. I told him I genuinely believed in the power of conviction. If you really want something to happen, it will happen.
I love him, insanely. I don’t know why I do, but he just behaves the way a boyfriend should. He makes me feel like the most wonderful thing existing.
I’ll never forget this particular incident. It wasn’t a big deal, but it meant a lot to me. I’d been looking into the huge wall mirror he’d had in his room, and thinking a lot of negative things about the way I looked. And I thought aloud about how terrible I thought I looked. He’d rolled his eyes and turned me around to face him instead and said that he thought I was gorgeous, and was pretty sure he was far more honest then his mirror.
Sometimes I think part of the reason why I’ve been unable to really like someone fully the whole year was because I chose not to. But also because none of them made me feel that way about myself.
Like I was the best thing, ever.
xoxox
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