I got all worked up about how he takes his coffee and he said I should be saving the world.
But he was the world, wasn’t he? Mine anyways.
I said my goodbyes.
He said goodbye.
Then I had to say hello again. Just to less people, with more clothes on this time.
Oh my god.
I had this epiphany last week, and reiterated it in therapy.
Even in my wildest fantasy I still live alone, in an apartment and I have to work for the love I want/have.
Seriously. This is the premise for the erotica novel I am writing.
They live across a courtyard from each other and she asks permission to enter his house.
I have read many a romance novel and there is always that build up and tension caused by misunderstanding.
At this point I don’t know how it ends. Not the book, my life…I am really lost right now.
I am in the middle of it. Standing in the forest alternately screaming at the trees and climbing them hoping for a better view.
I was recently reminded of a different conversation in a different parking lot wherein I said it didn’t matter exactly what path we took, even the mistakes we make were laid out to get us wherever we are going. It worked, I felt comforted…for a minute.
There is one lover I bonded with above and beyond the others. I asked him permission, in a generic donut shop parking lot to make him my antagonist.
I am his.
He said as much.
I was looking forward to spending time in his kitchen, in sweats, just talking the way we do.
Coffee and a hug or scotch and snuggles. His choice.
I said ‘I won’t instigate anything, but I won’t say no either.’ He instantly tried to bail on the whole thing. Said it didn’t matter what I was wearing, all I had to do was move a certain way and he would lose control.
So we settled on the coffee shop instead. ‘Low risk’ I said.
I also reminded him that I had been driving the entirety of the relationship, so what I said wasn’t a threat.
He left room for Jesus when he hugged me goodbye, the whole Holy Trinity actually.
What I was hoping for was a hug akin to those moments when we would be in bed together and this switch would flip inside of him and he would go from being respectful to ravenous. But with more clothes on this time.
I am trying to be good.
I asked him if he would/could.
I had it all planned out in my head…
I didn’t have a word for that flip of the switch, all I knew is that in that instant, he appeared to be bigger, take up more physical space and draw me right into it. It was the moment he stopped trying to control his actions, and it was one of my favorite things. Still is.
But now he has a girlfriend and I am in a purgatory of my own making with someone else.
Maybe I moved a certain way getting out of the truck.
I used to be accused regularly of having a script ready to go in all situations. I stopped doing that and just let people do as they do.
He asked me about his voodoo doll. Wondered if I had it with me. I said no, it’s home in a safe place. He asked if I had it in my tickle trunk with my toys and I said “Oh baby, no. if you come back I want it to be because you want to, not because I did some hoodoo sex magic on you. Also, you are not a toy.”
I feel the same way about everyone. Be here because you want to be here.
I did play the script game with the Poet. Not dictating what I wanted him to say, God’s no. Why would I deny myself the well thought out words of a writer? Besides, the things that poured out of his mouth were incredibly poignant, and the sweetness was genuine in a way I could never have written. I wrote my own part, a series of cameos. The quiet girl in the corner who wrote porn on demand.
It was so surreal that he was paying attention to me at all.
I spent a lot of time trying to figure out how to be what he wanted.
I lost sight that this is not a work or fantasy or fiction, this is my life.
Except the book, and that is like some weird grey area, wherein I can see it happening, but it’s still in my head.
He corrected me on this before leaving.
Also, and I was corrected on this glaring error 13 000 words in, she/I was not enjoying her exploits. She/I was too centered around him. Too bitchy, too cold, thereby unrelatable.
Truth be told, I like the work.
I am built for it.
But I’m built for more than that too.
Truth be told I like the sex, I’m built for that too.
And I do so love the writing about it.
Everything I ever did was a lead up to this.
How I can case a room barely turning my head and see
a) what I want
b) who wants me
c) please let it be the same person.
How I can manufacture the words using 26 letters and various turns of phrase to bring outsiders into said room with me and make them wait with baited breath to see who I chose. How I can bring them with me to bed, or to a fire escape and suddenly they are with me. Watching.
How I can make my readers feel the devotion I have for this man.
The bad part is, I can’t make him see it. I acted the opposite. Too bitchy, too cold, unrelatable.
Deadline is looming on the book and I am without my muse.
I should be happy. I can write whatever beginning/middle/ending I want.
We can run away together. Instead of running away from each other.
In that way I am blessed. I may not be able to manifest my ideal in real life. Not sure I should considering how I deny myself basic human comfort when I visit fantasy land. I don’t even own property there.
I am hoping therapy allows me to unchain myself from my insecurities and maybe see what I am worth.
But for now, I can live across a courtyard from my love, take my moments with him and string them together like pearls.