Sexy calm

making the sauce

Parts from my solace

Hope


Please, grow. Please, grow.

Hook, Line and Sinker; A Submission out to the publishers; eagerly awaiting a rejection letter

I find myself thinking about him in everyday situations. At odd and random times throughout the day that are unexpected but pleasantly so. That feeling of being somewhere else, doing something else, going about my business, but my mind is completely somewhere not in the present tense. Those times throughout the day when I don’t even realize I’m daydreaming. I’m going about my day enjoying my surroundings and my thoughts; then I suddenly feel myself being pulled back through a worm hole somewhere in time and space back into the present tense called, reality. Blinking my eyes from their staring-off into-space-dried-out-glaze when I realize I was lost in my daydream too long. It’s those moments in my everyday when I get lost. Lost in my thoughts. Thinking about how he looks at me. How his eyes go over me. Lovingly go over me. That’s all it takes for me to drift off into a lovely daydream about him.

How he looks at me first thing in the morning when I roll over towards him after shutting off the alarm. My eyes are still closed, yet I can feel his blue eyes looking at me.
How he looks at me when we sit next to each other at the bar with our cocktail glasses sweating in the summer air. I slowly stir my vodka cranberry together watching the ice and cranberry colored alcohol swirl together in the glass. The ice chunks make the lovely sound as they clink together doing their do-si-do around the glass. The dance of the ice brings the sweet smell of cranberry perfuming its way up from my glass and into the night air. It’s a sexual gesture even when I don’t mean for it to be.

All of the times we sat across from each other he starts with his hand on my knee at the beginning of the night, but as the night progresses so does his hand. His hand slowly, lovingly creeps up my thigh and slowly, lovingly makes its way under my skirt. All of those times, those times we started the night out by smiling slyly to each other with a knowing look in each others eyes and either leaving as soon as we greeted each other when we knocked on the other’s apartment door; letting the tension build up between us. Or sometimes, often, more times than not we started the night by entering the others apartment, greeting each other with a kiss of, ‘Hello,’ which would immediately lead into more. We would either slowly, teasingly undress each other or, at other times, in a frantic rush of pheromones tear the clothes from each other. Only to, an hour or so later, put our, now wrinkled clothes, back on before heading out the door both knowing full well how the night would end. How we both wanted it to end. The night together. Our nights together. Lying together naked on top of the sheets. It never matters whose bed we end up in at the end of the night, just as long as it is in one of ours.
The quick, abrasive sound of the phone ringing cuts into my thoughts. I snap my head towards the phone, blinking my eyes several times helping my mind land back to the present. When I see on the caller ID that it is him, I let the annoyance of my warm and peacefully, lost in a daydream state of mind, go. Plus, it’s an excuse to end my workout.
“Hello, handsome.” I say, answering the phone.
“Are you seeing anyone else?”
Huh? Where’d that come from? I thought, I don’t know that I’m seeing anyone let alone, seeing anyone else. How should I answer that? I only want to be seeing him, but should I tell him that? I am certainly dating a couple of other men. I am definitely always looking at other men. On the weekends I am certainly on the prowl, but seeing anyone? I’m trying to decide how honest I should be, but I have a feeling the prolonged pause on my end of the phone is speaking volumes and I probably don’t need to say anything.
“Well?” It sounds more like a command than a question. “Are you?”
The thirty-six minutes I just completed on the cross trainer put me through my paces, however, I feel the conversation I have very unwittingly encountered is going to end up being the more intense workout.
I step off the cross trainer and make my way into the living room and sit in my recliner. I slowly untie my shoes, peel off my socks and pull my knees up to my chest. Unconsciously I start to suck on my right thumb nail. I feel like he’s fishing. Fishing around for answers because he can’t come right out and ask me what he wants to know. I hate it when guys fish. It’s such an easy bullshit way for them to be pussies about asking something. It’s also an easy way for the girl to screw herself into answering more than she should and telling more than what was asked and in the end the guy comes out smelling like a peach. Plus, I have to wonder, after my pregnant pause, do I even need to answer the question? I highly doubt it. Yet, against my better judgment, I do.
“What exactly do you want to know? What are you asking me? Am I dating? Yes. Am I currently sleeping with someone else? No. If an opportunity arises, pun not intended, am I going to take it? Yes.”
Now it is his turn to be silent on the other end. I’m not sure if this is what he was expecting me to say or not. I am only being honest. I’m not trying to be cruel or hurtful. I am simply being honest.
“So,” his tone is fragile, child-like, “you’re sleeping with other people.”
“Again, on a regular basis, no.” I’m not sure if this is a good thing to say or not. I am basically admitting to the occasional one-night stand. Are one-night stands better or worse than a regular basis? I’m guessing worse. At least with a Mr. Regular there is familiarity, commitment of some kind. With a Mr. One Night it’s a, “Hey, how you doin’, let’s get it on.” kind of thing. Maybe a Mr. Regular is worse, because there is a familiarity, a commitment. The whole time all of this is swirling around in my mind there is silence on the other end of the phone. Absolute silence.
In those few deafening seconds of silence our whole history goes through my mind because I know this is the end. The end of us, whatever, “us” is. The end to our all night conversations. The end to our laughter and inside jokes, to our sarcastic one-liners back and forth between us that only we think are funny. To our late nights out at the bars. The end to the familiarity with the drinks we would order, the bars we went to. An end to the way he looked at me when we sat across from one another. The way his eyes went over me. Oh, so lovingly went over me. The way he would say the words, “You are so sexy.” God. That was the best. To hear those words, those words that may or may not have been true at the time he was saying them. They were true to him. In his eyes no matter when or where, I was sexy.
This is it. No more of any of it. All gone. Did I do it? Did I put an end to it, to us? No. I didn’t do anything wrong. We have been dating each other for three months, but we never set up any terms.
I hear him clear his throat on the other end of the phone and I realize the silence has been too long. I open my mouth to speak, but before I have a chance to say anything he says, “I’ve been seeing someone for a little over a month now and I think I love her.”
Huh? Wait. What? What did he just say? What the hell? I feel as if there is a canon ball on my chest, on my stomach. I’m going to be sick. I’m suddenly sweating all over. The sweat on the back of my scalp is no longer from my workout. A month? Wait, did he say a little over a month? How can that be true? How can he be seeing someone and be in love with them? With her? He was with me only a couple of nights ago, not to mention the amount of times we went out in the last month. The month that he just said he met and fell in love with some nameless, her.
With an accusing tone, “Um, did you say a little over a month? And you think you’re in love? So, what, this whole conversation was just a set up, trying to get me to be the asshole, the whore? What the fuck? Huh, what-the-fuck?”
“I just wanted to see where we were, where you thought we were. I really thought you and I could be something, go somewhere when we first met and then, I don’t know... we were great friends having great sex. I don’t know why or how or pin point when, it just happened. I wasn’t looking for it. It just happened.”
‘It just happened.’ This has to be the most bullshit line ever said in the history of dating. That and, “It’s not you, it’s me,” bullshit break-up line. Bullshit. This is bullshit. Why am I angry? Why do I suddenly care so much that he is seeing someone, sleeping with someone? Is it because he dared to say, admit, that he is in love? In love with someone and it isn’t me. Of course it’s not with me. It’s never with me. Why is it never with me? Why is it never in love with me?
Trying to hide the sweat and vomit from my voice, “So, now what? What? That’s it? You love her and so no more me?”
“Well, I guess so. I mean, I love her. I can’t help it, I do. I still want to be friends with you. I love hanging out with you. I love our conversations. I’ve never met someone who was so easy to talk to and just be with, and the sex, my God….”
I stop listening at this point. I’m sitting on the edge of my recliner staring at my feet. My big toe has never seemed so interesting to me.
I try and process what he just said. Is he being serious? Is he even listening to himself and all the blathering he’s doing? Let’s piece that bit of trifle together shall we? He loves her, but he loves our conversations, how great and easy they are. How easy it is to just be with me. Of course he mentioned the sex. However, he wants to be friends with me because he loves her…
I just sit.
Sit and stare at my big toe.
Fuckin’ A.
How do I meet these guys?
That’s what they all are too, guys. I need to find a man. A nice decent, boy next door, man.
I drift off into my thoughts when I realize the yapping in my ear is still him going on and on. I cut him off in the middle of a sentence because I have no idea what he is saying, yet more importantly, I don’t care. “Hey, you know what, I gotta go. I really gotta go.”
As I stab the, “off,” button with my left thumb disconnecting him from my life and from my brain, all I hear is, “but…” on the other end.
I stand in the middle of my living room staring at, but not really seeing the pictures on my walls. I stand there, feeling the carpet beneath my bare feet, the cordless phone in my left hand while I mindlessly tap my front teeth with my right index finger. I rub my stomach trying to calm the knots that have been created. The feeling of vomit that crept into my throat has since passed.
I walk over to put the phone back in its cradle, thinking, “Great conversations. Would still like to be friends. The sex. The ability to just be.” Rolling my eyes and shaking my head, “What the fuck ever.”
I make my way into the bathroom, pull back the shower curtain, and turn the oversized silver faucets to the place where I know the water temperature will be hot to the point that it will shock my skin, yet soothe my soul and strip myself naked.
I catch my reflection in the mirror and take several minutes to look myself in the face. To look myself directly in the eyes; to really look at the person staring back at me. To see me. I hear the tub start to fill up with water off in the distance while I have an internal dialog. Staring myself right in the face, directly in both eyes, I say out-loud to my refection, “Stop the bullshit.”
I pull my hair out of the sweaty Fruity Pebble ponytail, I don’t care that I rip some hair out with the rubber band. I step into the shower, I’ve let the water run for so long that it is more than ankle deep, I reach up and pull the curtain forward and lean my face and shoulders under the hot water moving my head from side to side. I take in all the heat and steam; letting my soul take in all the soothing goodness, and I wash him away. I wash it all away.

I am not
a mystery
unto myself.

a view from my deck garden

Sometimes I feel like this