le sigh.
in attempts of a real life journal entry, and in procrastination of any real fiction writing for my thesis, I wrote a creative nonfiction piece about the drama and men that are in my life right now. It's a soap opera up in here and I am forever alone and single and I did what I only could: write passively aggressively about it. (Oh also: I sort of sound like a slut in this. I promise I am not. This is a weird time in my life right now, this is strange behavior.)
It starts with the one that you would have never suspected. You were having a good time on your own, abusing the one dollar drink special and trying your best to minimalize the awkward sunburn from the pool that afternoon. You were out with a big group of friends and being daring and when he grabbed your hand and made you dance, you went with it. When he kissed you, you went with it and when you had to share the pullout couch at your friend’s house you went with it and when he pulled up your dress and pulled down your underwear oh yes, you went with it. He is the one that made you feel like you were fun, that you could just hook up on a couch bed and be okay with it. That you were a woman in control of her sexuality and you were letting it hum and vibrate, like a radio channel that didn’t quite come in.
You meet the young one two weeks later, the one that plays Mario Kart with you and likes all the same TV sitcoms as you. When you tell the story, you tell people he “quite literally charmed the pants off you.” And he is the one that you found out weeks later had a girlfriend. Despite this girlfriend, you still hang out with him but this time you wrestle on your hardwood floor until four am and touch him too many times on his thigh and fall asleep on the couch with his head on your shoulder. And he hugs you when he leaves and says you should hang out more and then he goes back home to her. So you try not to call him anymore and you try not to give in when he says come watch this crazy cool youtube video or come play beer pong, but he has a pull over you, a pull you are pretty sure has to do with the fact that you let him sleep with you the first day you met him. And something inside you retreats, feels no longer empowered but sordid and ashamed.
During this time you are drawing closer and closer to the coworker, the one that is like a little brother, the one that you are spending increasing amounts of time with and you wonder, you wonder. You always realize after the weekend passed that he is the person you spent the entire time with, either drinking or watching TV or simply talking to until one am about everything because it is easy with him. He has become one of your best friends before you even knew it was happening. When he asks you if he should end his long-distance relationship you always say yes, because it apparent to everyone but him that it’s not working out. You hope by saying this he doesn’t think you are into him. Because you’re not. At least, you don’t think so. At least, you hope so. But you imagine he would be caring and kind and none of your friends would get it, but you two would be happy, you know that.
Then there’s the ex-roommate’s ex-boyfriend, and he is the boy that you call bro and tell your drunken stories too. The boy that climbed in your bed at your party and pulled you down on top of him but you nudged him and said hey, lets go join the group. It’s the time you are glad you didn’t just let it happen, it is the time you learned that sexuality is about restraint too, a give and take. It is the time he apologized via text the next day, and it is the only time someone has ever apologized for trying to hit on you. You have many things you want to think and feel about this, but you choose to laugh and tell your friends over dinner. They laugh, too.
(You are not sure if at this point you should mention the guy that you want to really like but he is the boyfriend of your close friend because of course he is, because damn if there is a guy in your life that is single, and because damn if he isn’t one of the best people you’ve ever met. You try to make sure he is only a passing thought, a parenthesis.)
And then there’s him. The one you think about constantly except you know you are not allowed to think about him. The one that you can barely look at because he still stirs something up in you and being around him is not easy. But he is sweet and kind and loving and hilarious and brilliant and you want to be the best version of yourself when you are with him. You cannot believe he likes you. You cannot believe you like him. You cannot believe he is getting married in two months. You cannot believe you feel this way about someone, the frustration of a constant dull ache, and every time someone mentions his name you just sigh and try to not look like you are immediately affected. You want to talk about him with everyone, dissect and analyze every word he says to you. He is the one you proofread text messages to, the one you are careful with your words around. You thought he would be the one you’d be most guarded around during all those summer nights with all that beer and all that TV and all those times that you just didn’t catch on.
Until you did catch on, until he stayed with you until 6am, until his fiancé texted him over and over, until you woke up in your bed alone. It hits you that you are alone in a world with brief instances of something you think could be romance, could be passion, could be love. But you and men are ultimately passersby on a sidewalk, brushing shoulders and limbs briefly until you turn the corner, and then there’s someone else.
It starts with the one that you would have never suspected. You were having a good time on your own, abusing the one dollar drink special and trying your best to minimalize the awkward sunburn from the pool that afternoon. You were out with a big group of friends and being daring and when he grabbed your hand and made you dance, you went with it. When he kissed you, you went with it and when you had to share the pullout couch at your friend’s house you went with it and when he pulled up your dress and pulled down your underwear oh yes, you went with it. He is the one that made you feel like you were fun, that you could just hook up on a couch bed and be okay with it. That you were a woman in control of her sexuality and you were letting it hum and vibrate, like a radio channel that didn’t quite come in.
You meet the young one two weeks later, the one that plays Mario Kart with you and likes all the same TV sitcoms as you. When you tell the story, you tell people he “quite literally charmed the pants off you.” And he is the one that you found out weeks later had a girlfriend. Despite this girlfriend, you still hang out with him but this time you wrestle on your hardwood floor until four am and touch him too many times on his thigh and fall asleep on the couch with his head on your shoulder. And he hugs you when he leaves and says you should hang out more and then he goes back home to her. So you try not to call him anymore and you try not to give in when he says come watch this crazy cool youtube video or come play beer pong, but he has a pull over you, a pull you are pretty sure has to do with the fact that you let him sleep with you the first day you met him. And something inside you retreats, feels no longer empowered but sordid and ashamed.
During this time you are drawing closer and closer to the coworker, the one that is like a little brother, the one that you are spending increasing amounts of time with and you wonder, you wonder. You always realize after the weekend passed that he is the person you spent the entire time with, either drinking or watching TV or simply talking to until one am about everything because it is easy with him. He has become one of your best friends before you even knew it was happening. When he asks you if he should end his long-distance relationship you always say yes, because it apparent to everyone but him that it’s not working out. You hope by saying this he doesn’t think you are into him. Because you’re not. At least, you don’t think so. At least, you hope so. But you imagine he would be caring and kind and none of your friends would get it, but you two would be happy, you know that.
Then there’s the ex-roommate’s ex-boyfriend, and he is the boy that you call bro and tell your drunken stories too. The boy that climbed in your bed at your party and pulled you down on top of him but you nudged him and said hey, lets go join the group. It’s the time you are glad you didn’t just let it happen, it is the time you learned that sexuality is about restraint too, a give and take. It is the time he apologized via text the next day, and it is the only time someone has ever apologized for trying to hit on you. You have many things you want to think and feel about this, but you choose to laugh and tell your friends over dinner. They laugh, too.
(You are not sure if at this point you should mention the guy that you want to really like but he is the boyfriend of your close friend because of course he is, because damn if there is a guy in your life that is single, and because damn if he isn’t one of the best people you’ve ever met. You try to make sure he is only a passing thought, a parenthesis.)
And then there’s him. The one you think about constantly except you know you are not allowed to think about him. The one that you can barely look at because he still stirs something up in you and being around him is not easy. But he is sweet and kind and loving and hilarious and brilliant and you want to be the best version of yourself when you are with him. You cannot believe he likes you. You cannot believe you like him. You cannot believe he is getting married in two months. You cannot believe you feel this way about someone, the frustration of a constant dull ache, and every time someone mentions his name you just sigh and try to not look like you are immediately affected. You want to talk about him with everyone, dissect and analyze every word he says to you. He is the one you proofread text messages to, the one you are careful with your words around. You thought he would be the one you’d be most guarded around during all those summer nights with all that beer and all that TV and all those times that you just didn’t catch on.
Until you did catch on, until he stayed with you until 6am, until his fiancé texted him over and over, until you woke up in your bed alone. It hits you that you are alone in a world with brief instances of something you think could be romance, could be passion, could be love. But you and men are ultimately passersby on a sidewalk, brushing shoulders and limbs briefly until you turn the corner, and then there’s someone else.