Perverse. Inconsiderate. Egocentric. Irreverant. Your point?
New Years would have been perfect. My friends' cozy little apartment, plunged into darkness via a blown transformer (so bright--lit up the sky for miles.) Candles. MDMA. LSD. Cannabis. N20. Paul came along, my wry, introspective confidante. He brought a friend--here's where the trouble started.
I got this problem where I care too much about causing offense or awkwardness to ask the question on my mind. My new year's resolution is to accept the fact that getting the things I want is going to estrange people now and again. Sometimes you can't have it both ways. Sometimes you have to risk that slap in the face--more to the point, you're going to cause other people distress once in a while. Sometimes people will regret their involvement with you. Sometimes it hurts others when you get what you want. Hold to your principles and GET OVER IT. The alternative is frustration and loneliness, and after years of both I think I can live with being on a few shitlists.
Then the laughing gods of emergent fuckery decide to test my faith in my new principles not fourteen raw, bleeding hours into the brave new year of twenty hundred and nine.
People cuddle when they're on substances that amplify sensation. They get nuzzly, squirmy, sweaty, invasive with the hands. They go in to great breathy discourse upon the perfection of the flesh in their arms, explore, entice, excite. Sex very rarely happens when you're that far gone. Sex very rarely holds any interest when every form of contact makes your happy do a little dance of its own. There are those moments of awkwardness where you're unsure if what you want is okay with your newfound stranger-friend. You uncomfortable? No? Good. I have the urge to (insert act of fondling/frotteury.) May I? Excellent. The "bubbles" in your comfort zones start to resemble the Hawkings universe. You start to talk less, move more. You wake up the next day in a great state of comfort and serenity. I use "you" because I'm not the first person to spend an evening like this. It was sublime. She was perfect. We had talked of taking it further, and more discourse emerged--I thought maybe I could convince her to return that evening, where more fun was being had. She was hesitant. I made with the convincing. She shot me down for good, gently, shruggingly, almost apologetically. I figured that was the last of it.
Then she came back that night, and the situation got weird.
A little cold. A little off. No eye contact. No warmth. Severe discomfort. What little conversation there was, was disjoined, cruel, and harsh. A mere few hours between leaving the apartment that morning and returning that evening had made her dislike me--I was deeply, deeply, completely fucked out of my mind when it became strikingly obvious that the emotion being displayed wasn't discomfort, dislike, or annoyance. It was hatred.
Now, where had I gone wrong? Had she regretted allowing physical closeness? Had I seemed strange or off-putting? Had I seemed less than gracious in accepting rejection? I didn't think so, and surrounded by friends one would think someone would have told me if I had acted contrary to my nature. Had I been disrespectful in pressing the issue afterward? Perhaps I had. But she seemed so gracious about it herself--why the slow buildup? Why hide her disgust? What did I say, do, or display that turned this person so completely against me, and all in my absence? There was a moment of confrontation. Her only direct mention of the subject was less than informative, a blunt, icy refusal to even consider discussing that subject. The look in her eyes was suggestive of hell.
My friends did their level best to ensure I was okay. I lied and lied, telling them I was beyond caring or understanding. A veneer of calm confusion, just lying there watching the ceiling, pretending not to hear them talk about me, questioning among themselves, hearing her acid voice go on in the ugliest detail imaginable about my character--but not enough to understand where I had gone wrong. And all the while my mind of intention, clear and lucid enough to suppose and consider and suggest, chased itself in circles wondering, retracing, repeating. I felt very alone.
I got this problem where I care too much about causing offense or awkwardness to ask the question on my mind. My new year's resolution is to accept the fact that getting the things I want is going to estrange people now and again. Sometimes you can't have it both ways. Sometimes you have to risk that slap in the face--more to the point, you're going to cause other people distress once in a while. Sometimes people will regret their involvement with you. Sometimes it hurts others when you get what you want. Hold to your principles and GET OVER IT. The alternative is frustration and loneliness, and after years of both I think I can live with being on a few shitlists.
Then the laughing gods of emergent fuckery decide to test my faith in my new principles not fourteen raw, bleeding hours into the brave new year of twenty hundred and nine.
People cuddle when they're on substances that amplify sensation. They get nuzzly, squirmy, sweaty, invasive with the hands. They go in to great breathy discourse upon the perfection of the flesh in their arms, explore, entice, excite. Sex very rarely happens when you're that far gone. Sex very rarely holds any interest when every form of contact makes your happy do a little dance of its own. There are those moments of awkwardness where you're unsure if what you want is okay with your newfound stranger-friend. You uncomfortable? No? Good. I have the urge to (insert act of fondling/frotteury.) May I? Excellent. The "bubbles" in your comfort zones start to resemble the Hawkings universe. You start to talk less, move more. You wake up the next day in a great state of comfort and serenity. I use "you" because I'm not the first person to spend an evening like this. It was sublime. She was perfect. We had talked of taking it further, and more discourse emerged--I thought maybe I could convince her to return that evening, where more fun was being had. She was hesitant. I made with the convincing. She shot me down for good, gently, shruggingly, almost apologetically. I figured that was the last of it.
Then she came back that night, and the situation got weird.
A little cold. A little off. No eye contact. No warmth. Severe discomfort. What little conversation there was, was disjoined, cruel, and harsh. A mere few hours between leaving the apartment that morning and returning that evening had made her dislike me--I was deeply, deeply, completely fucked out of my mind when it became strikingly obvious that the emotion being displayed wasn't discomfort, dislike, or annoyance. It was hatred.
Now, where had I gone wrong? Had she regretted allowing physical closeness? Had I seemed strange or off-putting? Had I seemed less than gracious in accepting rejection? I didn't think so, and surrounded by friends one would think someone would have told me if I had acted contrary to my nature. Had I been disrespectful in pressing the issue afterward? Perhaps I had. But she seemed so gracious about it herself--why the slow buildup? Why hide her disgust? What did I say, do, or display that turned this person so completely against me, and all in my absence? There was a moment of confrontation. Her only direct mention of the subject was less than informative, a blunt, icy refusal to even consider discussing that subject. The look in her eyes was suggestive of hell.
My friends did their level best to ensure I was okay. I lied and lied, telling them I was beyond caring or understanding. A veneer of calm confusion, just lying there watching the ceiling, pretending not to hear them talk about me, questioning among themselves, hearing her acid voice go on in the ugliest detail imaginable about my character--but not enough to understand where I had gone wrong. And all the while my mind of intention, clear and lucid enough to suppose and consider and suggest, chased itself in circles wondering, retracing, repeating. I felt very alone.