Your window was open. Across the way, down the street - you heard it: a shriek that seemed to pierce your skull and eviscerate your spine. An obscenity, it lingers only until it's obvious that I physically have no more air with which to emit it, dissipating into a low plaintive moan before silence. Until I breathe in to do it again ...
There's that episode of Sex & The City where Carrie celebrates singleness in the midst of seemingly everyone else's couplings and babies and all that - you know, the episode where she loses (er, someone steals) her $500 Manolo Blahniks at a party. Well, just the other night I had the very same revelation when one of my best friends came to visit me. We were chitchatting and he noticed all the pictures of couples that kept popping up in my screensaver. He made a comment which seemed to insinuate that I hadn't done enough of the "loving myself work" to be in a couple myself. Now, knowing him, he wouldn't be frank and just come out and say the shit, but I wish he would have if he felt like I really was missing out on something because of slacking off! For real! But no, he ducked and dodged, tried to back out and shut the conversation down, and I called him out on it. Here I am, celebrating all the couples in my life, only for one of my aforementioned coupled friends to make me feel like I'm less than because I don't have a man. What kind of shit is that?
Thing is, I think we both believe the same thing when it comes to what he calls 'process' ... we both believe in cause and effect. We believe that if you put enough energy into something, something good is bound to happen. I, however, also believe in a sort of chaos theory, that is, I believe that you can't really predict what the fuck is going to happen - regardless of what you do. I believe that you can love yourself and know how to love someone else and WANT to be in a relationship and have all your duckies lined up in a row and STILL NOT GET THE LOVE YOU WANT. That's life.
I was just saying to him the other day that I need everyone and everything around me to edify who I am as I trudge through this life doing the best I can with what little I have. Boys and girls, I think that's it. That's all folks! No endgame of white picket fences and warm, sexless intimacy with The One Forever. No altruistic, beatific smiles for others as I'm content knowing something that they might know one day; I don't know shit. And what I do know leads me to believe that the unknown is greater.
Right now, I know I want some dick! Okay, it would be great to have a man who's loving and understanding on the other end of that dick, but I don't know - maybe I'm just made to enjoy dick. And that's it. When I see a man on the street or on the train, I look at his eyes and I look at his crotch. You know what? I want love and sex and I'm tired. I'm emptyhanded and the love of my friends and family is not going to give me the nut I need. I'm so fucking sick and tired of acting like sex is something I can compartmentalize or dull in treatise after nonchalant treatise or as if it's a stack of chips I can cash out whenever I feel like I'm making someone else uncomfortable. One thing that I do know for sure about this world is that I love to suck dick. When I'm on my knees, the world is a place that's giving me everything that I need, all compressed within those cubic inches of flesh in my mouth, in my throat. There is nothing to know in that instance, only everything to be. And I am.
So, in the context of the love relationship that I've 'loved myself' for, sure, this can exist. But I don't think life is like some fucking videogame where I win trinkets and keys to new levels only because I've denied myself sex and lied about the frustration and the wretched disconnection from the rest of the world that I feel when I don't get my nut. Especially now that I seem to be giving that need away to all the couples I've been loving, maybe hoping that there's hot sex in their midst, maybe hoping that some of their coupledness will rub off on me. I'm sick of this shit, for real, and I'm tired of waiting for what I believe can happen in love to manifest itself in a man who loves me and who can fuck me right.
What about everything else? It's been said that if your feet hurt, everything hurts, right? So, as much as I love to do everything else that I know how to do, those things can easily become distractions. If I had the choice, I'd rather create art that's inspired by the joy I feel when the sun's shining from behind a man who has just put my whole body into a full and unfathomable TILT! instead of groan on and on in blog entry after dreary photo after podcast after Amazon CD review or whatever about weeding through the despair of having what I think I know about love to end up meaning very little and straining for the hope of imagining what that love could feel like.
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