Live Through This

And this is the flip side, the sitting at the computer knowing that hey, if you can just write some porn it will all be ok, the readers will stop deserting you for newer, fresher content and you’ll have the satisfaction of knowing that someone likes you, someone still wanks to you, but all you can do is try to make the solitaire game come out right, over and over again. Because the thing that stops me from being a really good whore is the truth, and the thing that stops me from writing you, Gentle Readers, some damn good porn, submit to Sugasm, make it all glossy and fun, is the truth.

And the truth is, I want to die.

Monday, I wake, weeping. Husband cradles me, wants to know what’s wrong. And so I finally tell him – I broke up with someone. I worry that I’ll never be their friend again. And Husband, the strongest man I know, soothes me and holds me and tells me that it will all be ok, it’s just my pride. We go out together instead of alone, and spend time, spend money. It’s lovely. I decide, midway through Target, I Am Over It, which is what I text to Lover. Beautiful Girl reminds me in a long chat, don’t give up your power, don’t let him be your equal, this has been coming for a long time.

Tuesday, Lover texts me, Will It Make It Any Better to Know That Cute Girl and I Have Imploded? This makes me happy, of course. They have finished because she logged on to Facebook at 8:39, saw all the public flirting with Yet Another Girl, and finished him at 8:51.

Tuesday night, I unavoidably see Lover. I resolve to treat it as a first date, and I am not impressed. I’ve dressed, new shoes, new top, taken pains to look like Not From the Discard Pile. The way he speaks of women does not impress me. He is slightly unkempt, not on time, takes the last bite of asparagus. We are cordial. My allegiance shifts slightly, how dare he pick Cute Girl over Yet Another Girl because the plane ticket costs less? Do I want to even be friends with someone who plays the game this way? Our ability to be polite is hopeful.

Wednesday, Cute Girl learns through a complicated and high-school-reminiscent system of Facebook, Myspace, and LiveJournal comments that I have been her lover’s lover. She and I talk. I make it clear I’m not mad at her.

Thursday Lover calls me, wistful. We again discuss a week in winter in Foreign City. He reminds me of special times we’ve shared in the place he is now, texts me about songs on the radio that have to do with the Us That Was, laaaahh da da da daaaahhhh…

Friday, when I have been sick all week through all of this – truly, snottily, nastily sick, not just heart-sick – Lover rings again to see if I will mind his seriously dating Cute Girl.

Well, let’s see.

What he can do:

- Date my friend/co-worker without any social disapproval, since we have been secret and must remain so.

- Suck her in deep before she even knows she’s screwing me over.

- Continue to flirt with lots and lots of other girls in a way that I will have to be aware of, that will be unacceptable to Cute Girl, and that I can’t pass on to her because 1) I will look like a jealous bitch (which I am) and 2) she’s a big girl.

- Force me to continue being “friends” with him so there won’t be talk.

- Force me to continue working with her so there won’t be talk.

What I can do:

- Nothing.

And thank God for writing, thank God for words, thank God for the few, the brave Gentle Readers sticking it out through what by now looks like the cover of Hole’s first post-Cobain album, because as I write the urge to count out the number of NyQuils it would take onto the counter fades and in comes righteous anger. Thank you Cyndi Lauper, thank you Dresden Dolls, thank you PowerGirl and Beautiful Girl and Secret Scientist who are there and Computer Girl who would be there if I called. Thank you Husband, for telling me it’s not OK to bring this into our home, but loving me anyway while I can’t stop crying, can’t get out of bed. Thank you Lover’s Ex-Wife, because this is what your end was like and I was part of that. Thank you Be-My-Real-Friend, because Just Clients don’t listen to me whine like this. Thank you patient S and D from GC, thank you G, whose emails haven’t yet been answered, who send hugs, who trust anyway. Thank you words like bricks, building the wall, the shelter, put up the yellow triangle on the door because this relationship is now radioactive and while half my heart (ok, more than half) wants to take pity, let him in, it’s only until the world ends, there is no room, no room, I only have enough left for me and anger.

Today I Am...

1) Crushing hard on a Kiwi who plays the ukelele.

2) Bitter that I'm not better at my job.

3) In another time zone.

4) Out of love.

5) Totally thwarted in #1.

6) Wearing a totally ridiculous outfit...

7) ...that I am paid to wear.

8) (Not like that)

9) Alternately loving and hating my hair.

10) On the edge of tears.

11) Behind on a big project.

12) Transported by said Kiwi playing "Sweet Child Of Mine" on said ukelele

13) (Including the guitar riff)

14) to another girl.

15) (Context is important)

16) Contemplating starting a Facebook.

17) Definitely out of love

18) and calling on Beautiful Girl

19) to help me stick to #17.

20) Because if he puts his hand on the back of my neck, it's all over.

21) Craving Thai salad rolls

22) which will be made for me by a tiny Laotian woman

23) whom I think understands how much I love them.

Cards on the Table (and a bit of The Code)

The first night. Midrange hotel bar. Green felt cloths. Warming trays of meatballs and chicken wings and mini eggrolls shining moistly in their own grease, nothing I can, at this moment, eat.

He comes and hugs me. Fucked-Up Guy. First hand, two years ago, end of the event and we flirted over bad burgers and catered potato salad and he drank open bar while I nibbled orange slices and maraschino cherries out of a fruited Shirley Temple. He wanted a shower before the long drive home, I offered my room (I once bought ten pairs of underwear shopping with his girlfriend, hoping that new lacy things would make Husband love me again), he considers for a moment and shakes his head, “If it’s the first time, it shouldn’t be rushed,” he says and when the beer begins to wear off he’s on the road, headed for good fathership.

Second deal, we’ve Myspaced a bit but nothing committed, neither taking the step of recognizing or asking what’s going on. In the bar, Fucked-Up Guy launches immediately into the story of his relationship, Chapter Now. They are living separately, she could no longer stand how he minimized his email every time she walked into the room. He gave up all his passwords, he has to be good, she might be watching. He and I have never had problems finding sex on the road, he’s having a hard time knowing whether to enjoy being separated or practice being better at being together. I can’t tell, so I ask, after the second time he mentions his room number, “I’m not sure if I’m supposed to be respecting your limits or pushing you over the edge.”

“I don’t know, either.” He’s rueful, he has no cards in the hole. I’m strung up like a high E wire, It’s been three weeks of housing close enough to not bother to pack my toys, shared time, shared car, so much work I can’t even step into a bathroom with a likely prospect. The meet and mingle drifts to a close, I’ve located my room, Fucked-Up Guy calls over his shoulder on his way upstairs, “I’m in Five-Oh-Three!” Raise. I call his bluff, and spend the evening giving myself a facial. The kind that comes from Wal-mart.

The Code
Play with your equals. Don’t use superior ability to overwhelm the young, the inexperienced, the awestruck. If they’ve never played this game before, take the time to find out what they think the rules are, what they hope for, what they fear.

Don’t take advantage of people when they’re down…

The next day, shoulder to shoulder, I end up kneeling in front of him several times, innocent context made naughty by my look. I ask, “Let me know if you want to be shoved.” “Last night I wouldn’t have had any resistance,” he says, looking down at my upturned face. “I know.” It’s not fun to play if you know you’ll win. Uncertainty is the spice, the goad, the challenge. Why play with someone who has to be coddled along? Raise, raise, raise. Strike your strongest blow and lose your balance when they pull... “I’m your friend, first,” I say. “If it happens, great. If it’s weird for you, tell me, I won’t be hurt.” Fucked-Up Guy knows I’m cool with whatever happens, he knows I know it’s not me. “That’s why it has to be now, in daylight, this is when I can make a real decision,” he says. We are playing with all our cards on the table. The question is not who is bluffing, but can we assemble a decent hand from what we’ve got.

That night, he’s drunk and dressed as a queen. Don’t ask. Again, I sleep alone, restless, strung out. I’m also not so much flirting as enjoying a barely concealed antagonism with another fellow on this project, BitterMan. I like assholes, every now and then I get a thing for someone who treats me with slight contempt. It’s a challenge.

The next day, Fucked-Up Guy smiles, rearranges his schedule to leave early, whispers, “thanks” in my ear. “I don’t take advantage of drunks,” I tell him and he laughs. We take a group photo. I lean against him, his body is so strong and solid, his hand around my back, he jokingly reaches for my breast and stops, my hand on his ass. There’s something so reassuringly big about him, I feel like I am leaning on a wall of comfort. I want this. Just not today.


At the elevator after a long and flirty dinner, I know BitterMan is hunting PowerGirl and we all know it’s not going to happen, but I’m past the point of reasonable caution and I stop for a moment. “Let me know if you’re up for it.” BitterMan is blindsided, it takes him a minute to process. “What?” “I lobbed a pass. You missed it.” He’s so not into me. I’m busted, flushed. I pace my room, debate calling for a second try, and foolishly do it, leading to only more embarrassment. Fortunately, it’s Harry Potter night. So I drive into the fog and search the city for a book I’m pretty sure I can’t get either, the white air around me veiling my humiliation.

Enough about me, what do you think of me?

I go to meet the client who texts me all the time, using up my prepaid minutes, and who constantly tries to get me to send him dirty PM's (not it!).

I run late, because I have colored my hair (adding a dash of brown to the red, apparently it lasts longer that way, anyway, I like it) and done the kitty to match, and I leave it on a long time. I rush to dress, make up in the car, and on a whim, throw my whore bag into the car in case we progress to appointment tonight.

I go to TGI McGillicuddy's Good Time Emporium and meet him in the bar. It reeks of smoke. I catch his eye, greet him, and realize, he's sitting in the smoke-infested bar...because he's a smoker. Ick. Bleah.

We chat.

Me: It's nice to meet you! I hope your meeting went well.

Him: Meeting great, my job my job my job my job my clients my clients my way of doing business my smarts my smarts my savvy...

Me: Wow!

Him: My consulting my consulting my way of doing business my employees my way of running the office "I spend a lot of time manipulating, well, not manipulating, but controlling in an encouraging way" my way of running the office my business...

Me: Fantastic! I've been reading about the fight to abolish (regulation related to his job).

Him: That's BS, that's BS, that's BS, my business my business my job my title my office my work that's BS, here's the way it works, here's the way it works.

Me: Oh! That must be--

Him: (Story about how his business acumen and how it was spurned by a client who got taken advantage of by someone else and wanted to come back but he wouldn't let them. The story takes 11 minutes. I time it by his watch).

Me: Wow! You're so savvy!

Him: So what's going on in your life?

Me: Well, I just finished my master's, and moved here to--

Him: My life my house my cottage by the lake my boys my snowmobiles my atv's my jet-skis my boats my woods my vacations.

Me: You must be so--

Him: So how did you get into the hobby?

This is the first time he listens to anything I say or lets me finish a sentence.

At this point, we have been here about 40 minutes. This guy bores me out of my gourd. And he smokes. I'm already thinking, well, if I do him tonight at least I'm not wasting the getting-ready time. And he's not unattractive, just boorish. But hey, it's part of the job, right? Listeners-R-Us.

We decide to adjourn to a hotel. I call my Safety Friend and get her voicemail - I haven't warned her about this one in advance. I call Husband, to let him know I will be home a little later, and he sounds bereft. It's been a long day. I feel weird. My gut says, No. I spend the remaining six minutes of the drive trying to come up with a good excuse to bail.

We get to the hotel and I get into his car and explain very sweetly that I must have eaten something that disagreed with me, I'm having terrible stomach cramps, I'm worried that I'll puke if I go down on him. (Especially since, as I recall, this is the guy who likes that thing where the girl lies on her back and leans her head over the edge of the bed and he fucks her mouth, not that that really matters since it's a lie anyway). He has by now chewed gum. I kiss him, he gropes me, I bail.

He actually wasn't a bad kisser.

I rush home, beating Husband by seventeen minutes, during which I strip to the skin - every item I am wearing down to my panties reeks of smoke - shove everything in the laundry basket, text client to thank him for his concern for my well-being (he has texted me again, I swear I will bill him for that dime) shower, rinse my hair, and blowdry enough to not look like I have been in the shower. When Husband arrives, tired and down, there is soup warming on the stove and a wife in a bathrobe to greet him at the door.

I think I'm happier scheduling for the daytime.