How did I feel when you just called me?
Like I wanted to cry.
Tonight, I thought about breaking up with you.
Last night we were broken up (in my mind).
Tonight, the decision was contingent upon other factors, if-then situations that would work in my favor.
We would survive.
Last night was panic, paranoia, a torrential disaster.
The hurricane that would ruin your life.
I want to talk about the latter, the rationale behind my philosophical inquiry about us. It’s an anecdote of fact- a fact that I predict, you will not like:
The other summer, when I was still my same height, only I was twenty pounds more light, I went to a bar with my friends. The bar is gone, but the memory persists. It was just us eight girls, and one older guy. He was fine, I am NOT an ageist, but he obviously wouldn’t be first on my list. Very complimentary, he encouraged us to stay (with him), when we decided it was time to leave, he told us that his place was just down the street (he had coke). It was us eight and him (I forget his name, my friends and I call him ‘Daddy’), at his bachelor pad. A couple of my friends threw up in his sink or passed out on his couch while me and Daddy flipped through a book of explicit photos of old celebrities. His hand inched under my skirt until he grasped my entire left cheek.
I did not mind.
We shared a few kisses after I received some information. See, I’d been snapchatting with my ex all night, and had hopes to meet up, finally, after months of me trying. My friend, Marla, still in cahoots with his roommates, [over]heard (I wish it was a scenario of secrecy), him referring to lines of a letter I sent him, laughing, in a make-fun-of way, in front of a filled living room of frat boys. I felt betrayed and afraid; naked and invalid.
The night ended, I didn’t see my ex, and don’t worry, I didn’t sleep with Daddy.
I thought about this story, from the other summer, on my walk home tonight. I thought of it fondly, like a defining scene in my life. I didn’t think of my ex, or really of Daddy. I thought of my girlfriends, and our decision to permit Daddy to come into our night. Our voices over our music, our noses on his granite; it was the power of our mystique that allowed us into that particular void. Retelling that story, just now, felt different from how it has manifested in my mind, and I think that that’s a good sign. I never felt shame or guilt, not even from myself, but then again, the only people that knew were my friends, and they were with me, so, I wondered, on my walk:
If I told you that story, would it make me feel dirty?
Would it be the same as the picture of the cum shot? The one from Britt? Oh yeah, you don’t want to talk about it. What kills me is your lack of curiosity. I understand that you don’t want to see it, but when I tried to explain, you wouldn’t let me talk about it. Your policy seems clear to me:
Don’t ask, don’t tell.
Like when you read my poetry. You don’t understand it, after the first read, and then you blame it on me. As if, I’m the one who doesn’t see. You don’t ask me what it’s about, or why I’m pulling certain tricks and I don’t know why, I can only theorize.
Tonight, when you called me you asked:
“What are you writing about?”
Tonight, when you asked me, I said:
“A story from the other summer that I just remembered.”
You seemed surprised at my secrecy. I wonder how you rationalize the fact that the secrets I’m willing to share, you cannot read.
How many poems have you read, or how many poems have you liked, that you’ve understood the first time? I guess what I’m getting at is a lack of your respect. Only if I’m Browning or Dickens or Plath do I deserve to be read without instant flack. When you read authors like that, it’s your fault that you don’t understand.
This philosophy that I inquire, you hold, would fit in nicely, to some scenarios surrounding our sex. You like me a lot, and I wonder if it is because I am being complacently shy. After I taught you how to make me cum, and I came, you asked me:
“How many times have I made you cum?” and I said: “three.”
You were surprised then, too, only not in the way I’d been expecting:
“Oh! I thought it was only two.”
We have sex and you cum (pretty much every time); it would be a funny question for me to ask you the same thing. Yet, after I taught the lesson; they key to my pleasure, you again, didn’t understand. You didn’t ask before reverting to your hardcore disavowal of my sensitive clitoris and after you finished, you kept on kissing my neck. Each peck was a stinging reminder that you like me laying there, silent, unsatisfied, not telling you the not secret thing that was secretly anguishing my mind.
My body doesn’t pique your interests, or not enough to elicit a second read.
What first turned me on to you was your willingness to dive deep. Remember the time you told me that you looked at yourself as the narrator rather than the character in your story? When you said it, it sounded so selfless. Upon reflection, I now realize that what the narrator has, that the characters don’t, is
I promised myself that the next time I tried something like this, I wouldn’t hide, and just think about it, about all that you missed in the supposed story of Mr. Rochester and his detained wife.
All I’m trying to say is this:
If you were curious, you would question our world together, you would try to understand, you would help me be vulnerable to understand me and then we could both be characters who are both trying to be narrators in the story of our life.
But these are expectations, and this hypothesis is a fantasy. I know better than to hang you up.
When you just called me, and I wanted to cry, it was because
I don’t want to breakup with you.
I wonder if it is because I am weak.