I started thinking about my ex from a long time ago. Probably because I've really started to work on un-numbing my emotions.
I met him in 1996 via a neon green piece of paper. That was a time when I not only didn't know myself, I disliked myself on that basis. It was August, new student orientation. I was working in the HAWC (rec center of my alma mater). My friend "Rico" walked in with this guy. (sidenote: i was born a hardcore flirter. it's just my nature, for good or bad.)
Even with that being my nature -- due to my inner struggle to really dislike myself, I couldn't believe that this guy, TC, was flirting with me. That was the beginning of the newest ride at Six Flags.
Before he left, he handed me that neon piece of paper, which I believe I have saved somewhere, hopeless closet romantic I am. I fell. Hard. But in that co-dependent what did he like kinda way. Not the way everyday people struggle into and out of relationships. He was an 18-year-old struggling to keep his dick in his pants (or out), something I was naive about and didn't understand. (Ahh the joys of the female peak.)
I really loved him; something I've struggled to understand and to conquer for years. Even though he lied (lots) and cheated (lots) and helped me cheat and met most of my sensual "firsts," I truly madly deeply -- loved him. The details are lurid and pointless to re- re- re- re-hash. That was done in the 90s. I'm five years into the new milennium and I thought I had really put everything behind me. Not that I'm not "over" him. And I finally worked through getting "over" me. That was the hard part.
Most people think they miss the guy when they break up. I know I missed the "me" I had been. The relationship changed me; made me change who I was; and I had to reconcile all the things I had promised myself I would never become, that I had become.
And all that added up to six years of cursing love, denying its existence, and finding every "safe" person to befriend. "Safe" are the people you peg at a distance as nevers. The "I'd never ever date that guy, he's just my friend."
Yup those guys.
And then the year of change came; 2004/2005. I let people start coming in. Slowly at first, and then moreso. And I moonlighted some ideas of what it would be like to fly again. And some kind of romantic was reborn, or dusted off, or taken off the shelf. I've missed it -- even the desire to feel again angst or joy. Joyagony
Ok, you're wondering what happened to make the past year or so "the year of change."
It was a dark and stormy night... (ok, not stormy, definitely dark). I had started to really like this guy from work. We'll call him "Maverick" as he's an avid poker player. Maverick, one of my good friends *now ex friend*, my sister, and I were hanging out. Dousing our inhibitions with Skyy Vanilla, my ex friend, the photographer was taking random pictures (her favorite pasttime). And so I'm tryin to get this guy to just cozy up a little. You could tell he liked me in some way shape or form. His eyes lit up around me, and he totally cruised my physique in every conversation we had.
So I get to thinking. A dangerous thing to do anytime, but especially under the influence. We're at my friend's house, my house has a sundeck. Of course the sun isn't out, but the moon is.. hmmm... (I sense a teen primetime drama brewing). I ask him to take me there so I could take my contacts out. (I actually
did need to do that.)
In his beautiful convertible, black mustang, we cruise along. And I get this crucial question. Now it's not crucial as in an emergency, but in every and all near-future planning, alcohol reasoning aside, it was crucial. "How many partners have you had?"
Why would he ask that question? The only reason, anyone could figure, is that he was Interested. And very. Needless to say, my script was being read, the director was pleased and the producers saw big money in the works.
I introduce him to the small Los Angeles domicile, two-bedroom, roommate missing. And thereafter encourage him up the stairs to the moonlight, cozy deck. I lean in close, just as the director waves his hand, closer closer still. And Maverick has his arm around my shoulder, but we're still standing sideways, necks craned at the hollow moon. The marine layer is blowing in, its gentle breeze brushing our cheeks, cherry red and flushed, and I look up into his eyes, and he
(Now, this really does sound like Hollywood. If I really had this in a script, I'd be absolutely rich. But I don't and this is real life.)
and he looks away saying "it really is pretty, do you think we should get going?" And I feel awkward icky spikes of terror creeping up my legs, through my spinal cord, and I am nauseous. I wish this were an alcohol-inspired nauseous, but no such luck. It was the omigosh-i'm-not-wearing-pants-and-i'm-giving-a-speech-to-my-ceo awkward. It was how's-your-wife-oh-she's-dead awful, i've-farted-really-loudly-at-an-interview-and-it-smells-rancid bad.
So we left. He drove home. And a pretty fun and interesting evening gave way to false hopes and bitter dreams.
TO BE CONTINUED...