November 27, 2012 § Leave a comment
Love again. On and off again. The pendulum swings. Is it possible? or not? Companion? or lover? Yes. After that, what? I fear fixation. How can I not show what I want? Why should I not? To preclude rejection. Rejection is a negative expectation and self-fulfilling. I don’t trust my skin; most of the callous has worn off. For all I know, I’m ready, but for the confidence. Want, hope, fear. Do I deserve it? My call. Am I not perfect yet? I’m short two things I know yet can’t admit: The brick and mortar of delusion would crumble. I prefer erosion.
November 23, 2012 § Leave a comment
(To the tune of Depeche Mode’s Violator)
In lieu of companionship: domestication. Finding comfort at home. Sanctuary is comforting, is there when you get home. Nothing you talk to there talks back, though–not intelligibly. TV is not a conversation. Neither is a cat. Chocolate’s not sex (depending on the brand and the cacao content). But we make do. The job doesn’t come through: Come home and eat whatever the hell you feel like, catch The Simpsons instead of the news, try to laugh till bedtime, and hope to fall asleep before getting horny and/or lonely–unconscious before you remember what’s missing: A lifestyle that’s almost a life.
April 6, 2012 § Leave a comment
As I crawl from under the foot of the self-imposed tyranny of that so-called love and stand erect, I bear myself a bit more comfortably in going forward back into the fray. Flirting has become fun sport, yet remains so only so long as I do not consider the end to which it is often the means. I play much of that sport on the circulation desk at work, with any female patron that can raise my eyebrows. Encounters are usually brief, just long enough to play one point, which can be evenly volleyed to a satisfactory draw or double-faulted. Winning seems undesirable. What is to be won? What do I really want out of this? I want to know that I can hold serve and return one. I want to know that I’m attractive. I want to know that I can express my attraction to someone without eliciting fear or ridicule. I want more–companionship, compassion, sex–but am not confident in my ability to reciprocate. For now, the game’s the thing. It’s my level of commitment.
February 3, 2012 § Leave a comment
It’s easy to settle into a life, even an uneasy one. Singlehood may be a freedom, but it’s an incomplete one. There’s only so much I can supply myself. I would like to share, but the longer I live with my “little ways” the more covetous of them and embarrassed by them I become. These ways are what I have. I resist making them what I am. Most of them are filler, ritual replacing necessity. That necessity: Don’t I think about it all the time? What could I give up to allow someone intimately into my life? Which “ways” must they displace to justify companionship? I’ve settled into such a practical life that even intimacy must be judged against practical standards, which have already pretended to exclude it. New standards are in order.