March 14, 2010 - 12:17 p.m.
Steph M is not a good kisser, per se,
but it certainly feels good on the ego to have someone state, as they drunkenly kiss your face and sloppy grind you, that you would have great sex together.
This is debatable... and wierd on so many levels. But when you strip away all the details of the evening, the cut and dry of it makes for a bizarre, only-in-gay-town scenario:
8 days broken up with Devon
we go out together to Cici's
they discuss last night's fiasco (regular night)
we go to the bar where the festivities begin.
She starts it off, makes out with Cici, Nushki, Steph... Steph kisses me (to make her jealous?) presumably... but she seems to enjoy it and after laughing at her, mid-kiss, I just shrug and let it be)
Devon makes out with Brie (who she mistakenly asked about 'do you think she's hot'?) Her curiosity was more than a little irritating, since I could tell she enjoyed that kiss more than the others... tact ... no. Anyways, she looks like a squash-faced Drew Barrymore... the classic 'she's a Monet!' of Clueless fame. It only gets wierder when I realize we are on security camera, projecting down to the bar where Jmac is working... and Steph is following up our first kiss downstairs with an equally haphazard grind and kiss on the second floor. Wierder still when I'm waiting in line for the bathroom and Devon emerges with hot little Amanda G-bang who I've heard about enough times. They know how it looks, which registers on their faces, and I know how it looks - though part of me knows it's just 'how it looks' and the rest of me doesn't really care... but movies have taught me that the appropriate reaction is to look slightly wounded, turn on my heel and leave... not the whole bar, just the scene. Partly, I know that this reaction is just to see, to confirm, if after all this strange lip-locking, she actually cares enough to still respond to my hurt. I still can't seem to not care if she cares, though in my mind, there is so much that she doesn't know.
The first time, at Nyood, when my lips bruised on the couch by coatcheck, when she pulled me into the bathroom stall
The next time we met, and went for a drink on College, ending up in an alley, in mid-winter, with her pants off in the backseat of her parent's bmw
The times we bickered, like we cared, about how strange it is for her that I still live with you.
The time we fucked on your parent's bathroom floor, on the couch, in their shower, in your bed... and I had to explain away the bruises on my arms and make up stories bout doorknobs and my own clumsiness.
Practically living there the whole time your parents were away, which coincided with the time I needed apart... coming to see you, drinking expensive coffee and talking about all the delicious food we wanted. I cannot sleep at night, not beside you, my stomach twisting its face into an 'I'm not fooled by your posturing' smirk, sending me pain as payback for acting like this doesn't all affect me, like I'm in the state to move forward, mimicking and superimposing the acts of intimacy and confidence, of caring when I don't even know what I feel, or if I want to feel this as opposed to actually allowing these feelings (what feelings?, which?) to develop organically. I cannot sleep, this is the point, so I pace and consider why guilt kicks in, but only in the dark, only when I'm perpetrating the most innocuous crime... sleeping beside someone new
Dinner at Guu, dirty text-messages
You call me at 1 am, 3 am, 5 am (last night); when you are drunk you slip up and between out-of-line meanness you lay down the words, 'i really like you' and tell me you're taking a cab over to fuck me. I remind you that I don't live alone. You remind me of this often...
We have a good time, secreting away to NOTL, to drink wine, play dominoes (with my parents...?) and salvage an awkward weekend with the sheer will to make the best of the hands-tied situation I have created for us.
Partly it is a defense. It prevents us from speeding up, moving forward. The house is coming. My life is coming...
I am caught somewhere between past and present and want to still know that the past is there to catch me, even though I am striving towards a future that hasn't come fast enough. Scared, a little, that everything will come crashing down and that even then, I wont' be happy.
Then there is the other Jess, who could not wait. Who pushed me and made me think about falling in love again. Maybe it will be a bad idea the second time too, but sometimes I can't help myself. I cried in the car for losing something I didn't even have in the first place. I saw it coming, and as you always do, you denied the things I saw in plain sight.
You. She. She doesn't understand, through all her morals, that wanting is the trump card... and that she is the one who broke me, who set in motion all the immoral, selfish, self-protecting ways that she now finds at odds with the clean and tidy way she wants to love. I loved so clean before I met her. Before I met you. She taught me that it (love) was not always a wise way to protect your heart... and mine, fragile to a fault, broke over and over until I learned to keep pieces of it for myself. Maybe there will be something left, someday, or maybe I am a different species now; studying my own flaws and cracks, my hunting ground, where I am fascinated and repulsed by my own needs and wants. I may not be good to anyone anymore... but I will keep scratching at the surfaces around me, to see if they will bleed ... (like an Ani Difranco song) to see if they will release the scent that makes me remember being happy and unafraid, because I didn't know any better.
And as miike snow says, "i'm still an animal"
