See that thing over there? It’s an emotion coordinator. It comes with a little transistor thingy you can stick up your boyfriend’s ass that you can use to coordinate his feelings with yours. That way you can make him feel like you’re feeling. It’s rather simple to use. You stick in songs and poems that bring out a certain emotional sensation, a certain way that is just Martine (or whatever your lover’s name is), and adjust the dial depending on the intensity of that certain way you feel, so that he feels the same way too. And the memory holder… Throw in his old photos, T-shirts, stolen love letters from his ex-lovers, and it’ll access what scents, what facial expressions, what clothing, what words make him feel the way you want him to.
He’ll love me exactly the way I wish.
Forget it.
***
‘Don’t move your legs,’ He told me while I was snuggled by his side. ‘Look at them, they’re so beautiful. Look at the way the light falls on your calves, gorgeous. Your skin glows golden.’
I look up at him, my cheek pressed against his chest. ‘How do I make you feel?’
‘I don’t know. Too much.’ He said, pausing for awhile, looking as if he were trying to grasp at something. ‘You make me feel too much.’
I swallowed. Too much. Was that possible? Was it possible that he felt like I did; Too fucking much. I can embrace him, snuggle into him, fall asleep between him, and breathe all of him, and it’s still not enough. I can fuck him, and it gets me a little more then anything else I could possibly do, but it’s just not… right. It’s more than, but still not enough. Perhaps it’s because part of his is still Liz, but that’s not all of it. Maybe it’s because part of his will always belong to someone else, and maybe a significant portion will always be completely his, this I am highly certain. But that’s not fucking it.
I no longer think I make anything up about him, I know too much for that.
There was a whole stack of old photographs and ageing love letters in his little library, and he showed me some of them.
‘That’s Her.’ He said, pointing out to a girl from another decade.
‘Oh, ok.’ I said as I shrugged my shoulders. A year ago, he would have married her if she had just asked. I know it’s insensible, but I felt nearly cheated, along with the strangest sense of relief. How could she have deprived me of him? How could he have dared to even consider not giving me at least a portion of himself? It’s nearly unimaginable, but there’s something about our relationship that makes me feel secure. Sometimes I feel as if he cannot experience the exuberance and the urgency I feel about him, and maybe he can’t, maybe he feels something else. But I trust him. I trust so much in the fact that his desire is faithful to my person. My character and… my body.
I was standing around in the dining area drinking some soya milk, when he came out of the bedroom and stood by it’s doorway, giving my proportions some thought.
‘You’re beautiful,’ he said. I felt like he was demanding me to realize that I was.
‘What?’ I said, with a little bit of a half laugh. Partially thankful, partially incredulous. Did he really think so? I worship my own body, it’s usually good enough for me, but when you desire someone so much, you never think anything about you is good enough. And whenever he tells me that I am, I cannot dare to believe it. I feel like I have to work hard to give him something, not because I think I’ll lose him if I didn’t, but rather because I think he deserves me so much that I don’t ever think I can give him enough.
I cannot for the life of me think why he should deserve me. Maybe the fact that (I feel) he doesn’t care whether he deserves me at all is precisely why I want him to have me. It’s simple; unexpected gifts are the best things to give.
(And in all honesty, God I am so sick and tired of guys trying to sell themselves on the basis of their apartments, their earning power, their smarts. Vainglorious bullshit. Oh hey, someone last night told me he had a good job, a nice place, and lots of money. I don’t care for money unless it’s in my hands. How piteous. How can you possibly put yourself into that ‘I’ll pay, then you deliver’ approach?)
‘We have to go.’ Martine said to me when I started getting to comfortable in his bed.
‘Where?’
‘Didn’t you say you wanted noodles?’
‘If you want them.’
“If you do, yeah. I suggested because you said you’d like to.’
‘Ah forget it, I like being in your bed too much. And you looked rather uncomfortable sitting up on the couch even’ (He’s sick). ‘Anyway, I don’t really like being out with you in public… it’s difficult. I can barely keep my hands of you, and we can hardly misbehave in public.’
He laughed.
‘Oh yeah? When you’ve so little time for me, you can’t expect me to compete over you with social protocol.’
I looked up at his face and felt like I wanted to eat all of him. But I didn’t, I didn’t even try to kiss him. It was as if I knew that I’d be disappointed; that need wouldn’t be fulfilled by anything… not there and then anyway.
Doing my run today, I realized something that made me go, ‘how queer’. There was only one point in time when I felt ambivalent about Ethan, and that was when M came back into my life. And it’s queer because the relationship with E was built nearly solely upon my imagination, and usually nothing is more charming to me than what I can dream up of. Perhaps I’m dreaming about something else altogether with M, but if that were, I can’t imagine, or figure out what. He has usurped my imagination.
I told him I really loved talking to him, because I could tell him anything, and he wouldn’t judge me or think me silly for it. Even if it were the most childish thing in the world. It’s as if I know he knows I’m young and should be allowed to be silly sometimes.
***
I watched Closer last night on the G-Spot’s insistence and I though, after I watched it, how odd it was that he just knew me. No I’m not Alice, not Anna; I felt I was in the script while watching it. It had the same effect on me as Anais’s Henry and June. In fact, I thought it was very much like Henry and June. The I realized that all the great stories have already been told, and they all come from one source, and Salman Rushdie realized it in one of his greatest novels ever. Great because it was simple and thoroughly enjoyable and had a secret. All stories come from the great source from which run the stream of stories into the sea of stories…
People are so alike it’s amazing. Jesus, think about all the love stories you’ve read and watched. What do we all ultimately want!
And just for fun.
Bitches are just unfulfilled sluts. Oh god, I could I come up with something more unoriginal.
xoxox
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