I received and email today from my oldest and dearest friend. We haven't spoken in a while, but she admitted something she felt she could only tell me. She had recently cyber stalked her ex boyfriend. She had followed a trail of face book breadcrumbs that had lead her to photos of him, his wife, their vacation in Mexico and their toy poodle. And she was ashamed. Also, she was karmically punished, as she literally ran into him while on a jog two days later. It has her spinning. Not because she's sad and alone, she's with a lovely guy in a committed relationship. But he's her ex. And he continued existing after they broke up.
Now cyber stalking is nothing unusual. I'll admit to more than my fair share of it. Despite the fact that my ex lives in not just another city, but another country, any time I feel the need to poke the wound I just need to load up his band's web page to see how he's living it up as a retro rock star in NYC... complete with celebrity guest stars. I won't lie, it's not comfortable... but somehow comforting... to see pictures of him rocking out onstage. It was one of his more sexy traits, the way the testosterone dripped off him when he sang... or was that just sweat. There is a slight perspective I've gained, but the pain is still there. A ghost of what it was... they way it feels when you run your finger over scar tissue. You can't feel it, but you can. The sensation is unique and almost indescribable.
And THE Ex isn't the only way I can poke at old wounds. There's a rotating list of ones that got away. The too young for me guy from university... sweet, goofy, and not quite grown into himself... who years later reappeared as a muscular, suave geologist... a geologist that I let get away- twice. The guy I glanced at once across the room at a friend's party who married into the group and is expecting his first child. The guy I could have had an affair with if I didn't have scruples about that. Even guys I've tossed aside as not worthy, not up to snuff... they all find their partner, settle down, go about their lives.
Somehow I want them to stop existing when they leave my world. There is something supremely disconcerting when the specters of the past reappear... especially when they are the ghosts of what could have been. Honestly, it doesn't even help when I'm besotted with another at the time. I've had the privilege of introducing my (much more handsome, well built and successful) current boyfriend to an old flame. It tastes like victory, only stale... or with some sort of aftertaste.... of what could have been.
The truth is, I've never been completely able to remove someone from my heart once I've found them a place. They may move out, but their presence is forever stamped there... a song, a favorite food, silly rituals, the weight of their arm around your waist. Black Russians, Eggs in the Morning, Convertibles on a Summer Highway, New York City... they all connect back to someone, somewhere. A someone who didn't cease to exist when he left your world, or you kicked him out... a someone who still has a life that goes on and changes and evolves. A life with his wife, his vacation, and his stupid little dog. All you can hope is that when he runs a finger over the scar that is you, he feels something strange and altogether indescribable too.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Thursday, August 19, 2010
The Worst
It was a dark and stormy night when I experienced the horror that came to be known as THE ONE EYED SQUISHER.
Gather round children as I tell the tale of an unsuspecting young woman and the ghastly occurrence of the worst sex of her life. It all started so pleasantly, but it all went horribly horribly wrong.
The woman met a man. Tall, handsome, with a rakish eye patch that made her think of dashing pirates and romance novels, he beguiled her with his humour and self confidence. They played pool, he winning her phone number by winning the game. The met again, chemistry ignited, and though they did not consumate their relationship, they stoked each other's fires for yet another meeting. On the third meeting, they met, drank, flirted, touched, walked drunkenly through the streets and made out like teenagers on the porch. It rained, heavy pouring sheets of water.
"I can't make you walk home in this," she smirked, "You'll have to come inside."
Once inside things heated up. Hands and lips and clothing flying everywhere.
"Safety first," and the condom went on.
That's when everything went wrong.
Climbing on top of her, he settled his entire weight, all 200lbs of himself, directly onto her. No supporting his weight with knees and arms, just lying completely on top of her. Already the woman was uncomfortable, being nearly half his size, she was pinned, and having trouble breathing, but things were about to get so very much worse. The thrusting began, his hip bones jamming painfully into her soft thighs bruises forming instantly. Something internal was being poked awkwardly and she was unable to shift position at all. It continued like this for a blessedly short amount of time. And then it was over.
As she lay there, counting her bruises and checking for compression fractures on her ribs, the woman wondered How can someone be so good at foreplay and so very, very bad at sex? It was a mystery. She contemplated that he was perhaps a little drunk, so she decided to give him a second chance in the morning. That did not go any better.
How on earth can someone manage to squish you from the spoon position?!?! No one is even on top of anyone!
Not one to give up easily, and believing that everyone can be taught a few tricks, she gave it one more chance. Another night altogether would surely go more smoothly.
Unfortunately for her...
Seriously? You can be squished from behind AND standing?!?! How is that even possible?
He was completely untrainable, and worse yet, seemed not only to be unaware of his squishing propensity, but to be unwilling to change.
The truth had to be faced. She had met the dreadful One Eyed Squisher. All she could do was walk away...
And dear reader, lest you think that is the end of the tale, listen closely as I tell you the anti-mating call of the dreaded Squisher...
When the woman tried to meet up with the Squisher, with the sole purpose of ending their brief relationship maturely and in person, she received a voice message, rambling, drunken, and over five minutes long, explaining how he was a drunk, the economy was down, and that he wasn't over his ex yet (lucky girl or she'd be squished), and that it wasn't her it was him.
How right he was, children, how very right he was.
Gather round children as I tell the tale of an unsuspecting young woman and the ghastly occurrence of the worst sex of her life. It all started so pleasantly, but it all went horribly horribly wrong.
The woman met a man. Tall, handsome, with a rakish eye patch that made her think of dashing pirates and romance novels, he beguiled her with his humour and self confidence. They played pool, he winning her phone number by winning the game. The met again, chemistry ignited, and though they did not consumate their relationship, they stoked each other's fires for yet another meeting. On the third meeting, they met, drank, flirted, touched, walked drunkenly through the streets and made out like teenagers on the porch. It rained, heavy pouring sheets of water.
"I can't make you walk home in this," she smirked, "You'll have to come inside."
Once inside things heated up. Hands and lips and clothing flying everywhere.
"Safety first," and the condom went on.
That's when everything went wrong.
Climbing on top of her, he settled his entire weight, all 200lbs of himself, directly onto her. No supporting his weight with knees and arms, just lying completely on top of her. Already the woman was uncomfortable, being nearly half his size, she was pinned, and having trouble breathing, but things were about to get so very much worse. The thrusting began, his hip bones jamming painfully into her soft thighs bruises forming instantly. Something internal was being poked awkwardly and she was unable to shift position at all. It continued like this for a blessedly short amount of time. And then it was over.
As she lay there, counting her bruises and checking for compression fractures on her ribs, the woman wondered How can someone be so good at foreplay and so very, very bad at sex? It was a mystery. She contemplated that he was perhaps a little drunk, so she decided to give him a second chance in the morning. That did not go any better.
How on earth can someone manage to squish you from the spoon position?!?! No one is even on top of anyone!
Not one to give up easily, and believing that everyone can be taught a few tricks, she gave it one more chance. Another night altogether would surely go more smoothly.
Unfortunately for her...
Seriously? You can be squished from behind AND standing?!?! How is that even possible?
He was completely untrainable, and worse yet, seemed not only to be unaware of his squishing propensity, but to be unwilling to change.
The truth had to be faced. She had met the dreadful One Eyed Squisher. All she could do was walk away...
And dear reader, lest you think that is the end of the tale, listen closely as I tell you the anti-mating call of the dreaded Squisher...
When the woman tried to meet up with the Squisher, with the sole purpose of ending their brief relationship maturely and in person, she received a voice message, rambling, drunken, and over five minutes long, explaining how he was a drunk, the economy was down, and that he wasn't over his ex yet (lucky girl or she'd be squished), and that it wasn't her it was him.
How right he was, children, how very right he was.
3 Dimensional Shift
I'm ashamed to admit it, but I'm sizeist.... heightist, weightist, even a little lookist... Yes, I admit it. When it comes to men, I'm a little bit... prejudiced.
It's not that if a man was otherwise fantastic, I'd completely write him off if he were, say, 5'7" (my height) or 125 pounds (my weight) but I'm going to be honest, I'm just more attracted to men who are taller and more... substantial... than myself. I like to wear heels. I think it's weird if I have to bend down to kiss my date. And I'm a fairly skinny chick, my guy shouldn't make me look big!
I know! I know! I can hear you already. Up in arms over the way I judge men.
"How would you like it if men judged you like that?!" you cry.
"That's so shallow!" you (pre)judge.
Well, tough.
First of all, I don't like it when men judge me, or my friends, based on physical factors. But it happens, and it's natural. If a guy doesn't like me because I'm too tall for his tastes, or too curvy, or too thin, my skin is fair and freckled or my hair is the wrong colour, so what? If I'm awesome, he may get past it... or he may not. And if he doesn't get past it, someone else will see how awesome AND how hot I am and there won't be a compromise.
The same goes for my prejudices.
I've dated short before. It was actually him who had more of a problem with our heights being the same. He was a good looking guy, well built, and gainfully employed. He was often sweet and funny, but just as often sort of rough and off putting. In the end it was just our personalities that drove us apart. He saw me as some sort of "artsy brainer" oddity, and that made me see him as a "wall street jock".
And he was so damned short it was like being made out with by an italian leprechan!
In all seriousness, you can try to change what you find attractive, and you may surprise yourself by what REALLY does attract you in the end. If the chemistry is there, you may not care that he's going bald or has a paunch, or that she's not a blonde. But maybe you will. You'll never know unless you try, but don't beat yourself up if you just can't get past it.
Attraction is a multi dimensional thing... and sometimes you just can't make a dimensional shift.
It's not that if a man was otherwise fantastic, I'd completely write him off if he were, say, 5'7" (my height) or 125 pounds (my weight) but I'm going to be honest, I'm just more attracted to men who are taller and more... substantial... than myself. I like to wear heels. I think it's weird if I have to bend down to kiss my date. And I'm a fairly skinny chick, my guy shouldn't make me look big!
I know! I know! I can hear you already. Up in arms over the way I judge men.
"How would you like it if men judged you like that?!" you cry.
"That's so shallow!" you (pre)judge.
Well, tough.
First of all, I don't like it when men judge me, or my friends, based on physical factors. But it happens, and it's natural. If a guy doesn't like me because I'm too tall for his tastes, or too curvy, or too thin, my skin is fair and freckled or my hair is the wrong colour, so what? If I'm awesome, he may get past it... or he may not. And if he doesn't get past it, someone else will see how awesome AND how hot I am and there won't be a compromise.
The same goes for my prejudices.
I've dated short before. It was actually him who had more of a problem with our heights being the same. He was a good looking guy, well built, and gainfully employed. He was often sweet and funny, but just as often sort of rough and off putting. In the end it was just our personalities that drove us apart. He saw me as some sort of "artsy brainer" oddity, and that made me see him as a "wall street jock".
And he was so damned short it was like being made out with by an italian leprechan!
In all seriousness, you can try to change what you find attractive, and you may surprise yourself by what REALLY does attract you in the end. If the chemistry is there, you may not care that he's going bald or has a paunch, or that she's not a blonde. But maybe you will. You'll never know unless you try, but don't beat yourself up if you just can't get past it.
Attraction is a multi dimensional thing... and sometimes you just can't make a dimensional shift.
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