I usually run screaming from commitment. Cause it’s hard. Cause I can’t…reproduce. Fart face. There it is. Talk about not being able to fulfill the biological imperative. It makes love/dating more than awkward…more painfully awkward than it already is for me.
“So hey…stud…you’re hot”…but by the way no picket fence closing in the family unit of exactly two point five kids. How do you work this into a conversation and when even? If there’s a connection…I’ve learned that sterile shatters it. The projection of a happy life building a family…not with me. I’ll never be enough…so fuck it…I don’t need love. I don’t want it.
And I was so fucking awkward about it too. Surprising I know. True to both our forms, Rico Pepito (a name I gave half to take him less seriously and half because his stupid head always reminded me of a pumpkin; another half because math isn’t my strong suit; because he oozes satin) was striding past just as I, in the most dramatic fashion, had tripped. On the transition downward, in slow motion, all the contents of my bag erupted violently surrounding me. And it’s not like it was even sexy things like fragrance, condoms and lip gloss…my bag contains such treasures as a crusty chapstick, super sized tampons and an almost empty clinical strength antiperspirant and plethora of crumpled papers in various states of tatterdom.
So here I am crouching like I’m taking a crap while trying to garner my crap and Rico opens with some wise ass remark about how I’m a disaster. Well duh…but I didn’t even really register what asshole thing he even said because I was immediately in that scene from Wayne’s World when Wayne first lays his eyes on the sultry Cassandra. Cliched music…blurred vignette…the scent of roses and frankincense….the fucking works…blurring the reality of my constant and yet poignant soundtrack “you’re a creep” by Radiohead.
Whatever nonsense I blurted next through my lovestruck blindness must have appealed to him or to his ego or maybe I seemed like an easy target because he reached out his hand to help me up. The touch was akin to God with a bare fingertip tap animating life into Adam; it sent shockwaves of wet fire through my arm and directly to both my pussy and heart. This romantic scene (in my head) amidst my hefty tampons all strewn about around me like perverse rose petals or some shit. Damn.
I was palpably nervous and even more poignantly awkward than usual as a stream of verbal diarrhea exited my face with the speed of an F-111 jet. Rico just sat there observing, oozing his nonchalant charm with a liquid satin smirk on his face as I continued to make an utter joke of myself. I was captive in my own box of spewed dialogue and absolutely sure he was just going to be like “ok, bye”. However to my blushing surprise and another lightning bolt of pleasure radiated directly to my clitoris, Rico touched my knee in reassurance, almost human and said “slow down, no need to be nervous.”
It was in that moment I fell so fucking hard. Whack your temple on the pavement, severe concussion, I’ll crucify myself for you, hard. ROCK HARD.
So during this conversation which had moved to my place, I, got a little buzzed. Okay…drunk… It wasn’t intentional. I was overwhelmed. Was it his suave grace? Was it my own overgrown attachment to this man? Was he trying to get laid? Was I…in the self-inflicted anorexic state for love? Through my drunken haze, I felt his vulnerability. Can you fake that? Maybe, but everything in retrospect is tinged with bitterness especially if it’s unrequited. All I knew is that I wanted this man, I needed this man, I would love this man until it broke me…and possibly…definitely even after that.
So what did I do…well of course, the most awful thing possible. I sloppily and like a complete slut threw myself at him through the awkward utterance of “ uh, want to watch a movie” not which 3 seconds into I threw my booze oozing self on him for what turned out to be the hottest make out session of my life. My senses deadened with drink but alive with feeling alive in having met my match. My opposite. The Monistat-1 to my yeast. Finally in a finale of awkward proportion I succumbed to my cups and passed the fuck out. Believe me I was berating myself even in my inebriation and would for years…I’ve never stopped. Why the fuck did you have to be so drunk and slutty? What are you a sorority sister? Who the fuck are you? Jesus Christ. I hope I didn’t fart as I passed into my pass out. He never said.
I woke feeling like asshole ridden with lacerated hemorrhoids. Ready and willing to berate myself with “see this is why we don’t do feelings”. This is why…goddamnit.
To my complete and utter shock…Rico texted…he wanted to take me out.
As you can imagine, we connected. He was vulnerable I think. I know I was. With him. He knows me better than anyone. All my shortcomings, understands my awkwardness. Accepts me. But he doesn’t.
There’s been a lot of break-ups, breaks and goodbyes. His fear of commitment…he pours it like a well-aged bourbon. So that you don’t even know it’s getting you wasted. I thought my own shortcoming of being barren was inconsequential. My anything is inconsequential in light of his attention. So each time we’d end, I’d just default to my own line of denial and masturbation. Because isn’t any self-soothing a form of masturbation. Including thinking there will be round 3 or 28?
This one …this break is permanent.
I definitely begrudge him committing to someone else. I definitely would rue whoever he chose that wasn’t me; we’re fucking fated, asshole…did you forget? Did you forget the work I put in you stupid pumpkin headed piece of….AAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHH. But her…who is as dear to me as you. Her…
So I’m back to my habits. Feeling inadequate. Watching unrealistic romance so I can scoff at it. Diddling my pain into silence like an obese person chugs donuts and sobs…inwardly dying. Each ending has broken off little nuggets from my soul and now shattered I remain so in the exquisite and dramatic loss of something I never wanted.