Being an adult isn’t the somnambulating wild dreamscape that I thought it would be. Not the desperate fight to survive, like every adult I encountered in my late teenage years made it out to be, but, then again, adults who hang out with 19 year old girls probably don’t really have their shit together in the first place. Maybe I’ve been blessed with a fierce case of “the right place, at the right time,” because I’m home again. But this time, the hopelessness has somehow dissipated, and rather than constantly pulling myself back from a precipice of impending death and doom, things are going okay. The fever tremors of manic episode have died down, and waking up every day feeling like crying for no real reason doesn’t happen too much anymore. Wondering where will I sleep, or what will I eat – questions that seem to define the human fight for existence in this world – those questions have been answered. I’m okay, just like they said I would be okay one day. And that day is today, but I can’t decide if something inside me has died after working every day for so many god damn years, or if this is just what happens after a series of decisions mull over the passing of time, and then everything is okay. Is everything okay?
I stalk him in his sleep, and I see him lying there. Helpless like a lamb, which he would never be in waking hours. But there he is, and here I am, me with these fangs and an acute amount of cunning. The exact amount of cunning that it takes to bear down on sleeping giants and take everything I want from them. Right now. While is blinded by his own weakness, and here I am. Sucking out from him everything that makes him strong. I will take his car. I will take his money. I will take his job. I will take his house. I will give him children, and then take those from him, too. I will take his friends, as my own friends, and his mother. I will take everything about him that gives him self worth. I will take his orgasms, and I will make him hate his own penis. As I sit here in the dark, plotting, and with these claws on my hands and these fangs in my mouth. I will weaken him with his own desire, and then I will rob him of everything he holds dear. For no particular reason, really, although some would say that he has wronged some of us in some way. But why can’t I do this just for sport. Why can’t I break this boy because my own boredom tells me that I can. Why can’t I wreck men for the satisfaction of my pleasure.
So I indulge myself. As I sit at the edge of the bed with my hand on his leg and this deceptively loving look on my face. I am the demon he never saw coming, but, trust me, baby. I am coming. Right at this very moment, with the revelation of his destruction in my mind, and when he wakes up tomorrow, everything will be gone. Except, of course, for the memory of me and the victory I have taken away from him.
I am waiting for time to pass. Because someone once said that time heals all wounds, and this wound, this gaping gash in my heart – I would like to feel nothing until the only thing I can feel is that there is no more wound. That I am better. I would like to self medicate so that time passes seamlessly. So that I can wake up on the other side of three years from now, fully repaired and uninhibited by the stitches that are holding my piecemeal heart together haphazardly. I am floundering here, and I wonder how long it will take this time. How much life will pass me by before I can actively participate in it again? How many opportunities will I have to miss because this broken heart has me pinned between the sheets in my bed, inert and disinterested? How many friends will come and go, and all I want is to be better. To shake this feeling and this sense of emotional disquiet. I would like to get up today and feel like everything is okay, but today is not that day. So I will continue to watch the clock count down until the elusive never when today is the day that things start to hurt a little bit less.
Have you ever fallen in love with the village bicycle? I have. Which is ironic, because I might be the village bicycle myself, but this particular missive isn’t about my personal sexual indiscretions. It’s about his, and the humiliation that ensues loving someone like that. Which is perhaps ironic, maybe even hypocritical of me, but let’s just chalk it up to poetic justice. That I’m ashamed to lust after someone who has already fucked all my friends, and when I’m with him out in public, I can feel the judgment being passed upon me. Because I already know that you can’t turn a ho into a housewife, and that a trick will never be triumphant. And while silently I feel like I’m being played this whole time, at the end of the day I am only playing myself.
I have been cursed, haven’t I? And everything that I said to myself and to my erstwhile lovers, that they shouldn’t be upset that I’ve fucked all their friends because I’m here, right now, with you, and only you – somehow there was a grave miscalculation in my equation in regards to the amount of insecurity that comes with fucking the village bicycle. Regularly, and like it means something. Ah, so I am a hypocrite, but at least I know that there’s no way that I can get him to unfuck half the girls in this town, so I sit here, sipping silently, and I wonder. I wonder how many. Which is a morbid thought to have, and I always told myself that I wasn’t a jealous person. But I had never been bested at my own game, and it’s not that I’m jealous, it’s more that – oh, how can I say this? I’m fully aware of the mindset of someone who sleeps around town, and the pursuit of love is not the endgame of all that, so what am I doing wasting my time.
So I stand up and walk away because I know that it doesn’t matter to him why I’m leaving. Just that I’m leaving, and he’ll have to find someone else to fuck tonight because I am not the one.
I can feel it growing inside me, and I hate myself for it. This sudden emotion, and I wonder what kind of fool lets love erupt in a barren state. Me, I guess, I wait blankly for any sign that this burgeoning feeling, which grows so much beyond the lust I experience on a daily basis, is not an unwarranted, unreciprocated benchmark of my own utter stupidity. Maybe that’s the curse of being a woman: that every new orgasm adds an inch to the amount of emotion that you can feel for another person. Every loving look gets misconstrued as a desire to be more than just the fleeting moments of grotesque fuckery that is born out of everything that is less base and more animalistic than the highly elevated emotion of love that has been automatically been vaunted to the ne plus ultra of the human experience via various epitaphs and movies and songs. No, it had all started out as something purely carnal. That lust instinct being fulfilled through hasty phone calls and late night thrusts. Until suddenly, and after that happened too many times, and here I am. Sitting here wondering why he hasn’t called me yet, and is it because he’s suspicious of my new motives? Does love bleed out from my eyes every time I look at him, and does that disgust him? Or does he laugh instead, as my hand hovers over the phone, begging for some anything that is me being more than just the piece of ass that up until now I have always been contented to be? For him?
So I play the scenario out in my head, and I know that I am the fool. To sit here feeling these feelings so violently, when the best that I can ever hope for is that he will never know and that he will keep on fucking me. That instead of pushing him away with my caustic “wanting more,” that I can at least hold onto the sex that has brought me to this unfortunate crossroads. I have to keep fucking him, because I know that he will never let me love him. And his dick is the best thing that I have right now, so I will keep my mouth shut and move on when I need to.