Another woman just came up to that guy, and held him by the shoulder, and whispered something in his ear. He nodded without looking at her and there was this frequency of intimacy and familiarity that stopped everything in its tracks. The other woman acted like the interruption hadn’t happened, and that it hadn’t affected her, or been an obstruction to her efforts. Yet it had.
Now she’s breathing really shallowly, and trying not look at him as he’s saying good-bye to her, and kissing her on the cheek, in this really awkward and rigid way, because I think that that other woman is his partner, and they’re leaving now. What. Why was he talking to her for so long, and in such an intense way? Was he just being “nice” because he’d like to think that he’s concerned about “hurting her feelings” when, really, he’s just obsessed with making sure that everybody likes him, because he’s terrified of being human, and flawed, and real, and complex, and a bit unlikable on occasion? Did he think that she might be a good lay one day, and he wants to keep her hanging around for that? Or did he just want everyone else to see him talking to her? Or did he simply reduce what was occurring between them to “nothing” so as to give himself the illusion of self-preservation, and healthy boundaries, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he was giving off wildly mixed messages, and being super-leaky?
I feel bad for her. I read somewhere that most women lose their train of thought, or turn to mush, when a man that they find physically attractive approaches them, or talks to them, or walks into a room. I wish I knew what that felt like. I won’t notice a man unless I sense a fifth-dimensional connection to him and to his soul. If I can’t see pyramids or past lives with him—or some kind of rope extending from my heart to his—I won’t see him.
I once dated a guy who got so much attention for his physical appearance that I started to think there was something wrong with him. People kept congratulating me for “getting” him and for “training him so well” and they’d ask me “what it was like to be with him” and “how I had done it” and “why couldn’t he be nice to everyone?” as if we were in Medieval Europe and the last prince of the royal bloodline was now betrothed to me.
I’ve been in the presence of women who’ll see someone they consider to be “good looking” and they’ll say things like, “I’d love to ride that” or “Imagine being on the receiving end of that gaze every day” or “I think I just slid off my chair” or “Who is he here with?” or “So dreamy” and I’ve smiled like an idiot in an attempt to seem simpatico with something that makes absolutely no sense to me.
I want to go over to her and say something. It’s just that whenever I speak directly with someone about what’s happening in a social situation, they usually deny that anything is happening at all. Or, they acknowledge some truth to what I’ve observed, before proceeding to say: it’s none of your business / do I know you / you’re too sensitive / you’re brutal / you’re paranoid / I was just being friendly / you’re upset because you’re not the center of attention / I can’t go anywhere / I can’t talk to anyone / what the fuck / what’s the problem / why can’t you just take a joke / it was nothing / what are you talking about / why do you always do this / mind your own business.
None of which answers my question, or deals with what I have witnessed. Then I’m left with the something that was, in fact, happening, and no, I don’t feel comfortable with it, because no one ever seems to want to see or take responsibility for it, and I have no idea what to do with it. I don’t want it, and I don’t understand why I have it. Then I have to let it wash over me, and I start imagining slicing through things with swords, because despite the fact there are people all around, doing all of the things that people do, none of it can be spoken of, or bear to know its own name.
32.
The music is relentless, and heavy, and it’s pummeling me, and I’m becoming it, and allowing it to absorb everything that I don’t know what to do with, and that doesn’t have a place in this room.
It’s so funny how we can go without food or water for days, and we can hold our breath for minutes at a time, and yet we can’t go without experiencing ourselves for a millisecond. There’s no way of escaping our inner world. Information keeps rolling in, and rolling out. It’s constantly being sensed, and felt, and observed, and assessed. It’s endless.
33.
Now I’m thirsty and not for vodka. I might move toward the kitchen. Water helps everything, and I don’t know why I forget to drink it. Apparently, we’ve already been dehydrated for like half an hour by the time we realize that we’re thirsty. I’m not sure how information like that is meant to help a person. I mean, you can’t know you’re thirsty until you’re thirsty.
When I was at boarding school a phys-ed teacher told us that it’s best to sip water rather than skull it, because our bodies can only absorb 30ml at a time. I remember being really disturbed by this idea. I started obsessing over where the rest of it went. Surely the fluids that we drink go through this whole intricate process inside of our bodies before we wee them out? People aren’t buckets. What we swallow must change form and find other uses. There’s no such thing as “waste” really. What was she on about?
It’s amazing how destructive the wrong information from the right person can be. Like, when a doctor says “Take this,” it’s so easy not to ask “Why?” and to take it, and when the dude who sets up the TV says “Don’t leave the screen on pause because it’ll burn the plasma” it’s so easy to say “Ok” and not “What is plasma?” and “How does it burn?” The same goes for “eating protein” and “dry cleaning” because, like, why? Cows live off grass, and what if I hand wash it in cold water?
Gosh, the kitchen in this house is adorable. The ceiling is high, and the wooden cabinets are worn around the handles, and everything is very well used, and loved, and the epicenter of everyone’s day-to-day activities. They must spend a lot of time in here doing their dishes, and drinking wine, and laughing, and getting upset. Oh, they have a water filter, too! Rain down on me, sacred drops!
It’s so lovely that no one who lives in this house owns it. We don’t own the earth so why would we dream of “owning” a property on it? We’re just visiting. Even if we buy land, it isn’t ours. Not really. Renting is such a great reflection of our transient reality as human beings. I don’t know why people get funny about it.
My ex-boyfriend’s stepmother once said that the house he was renting was “good for a rental,” implying that rentals weren’t inherently “good.” She shared this over dinner one night after insisting that she would buy him new crockery, as if it were this grand gesture and major contribution to his life. Like, somehow, her buying him new dishes would have been bettering whatever idea he had of himself, and of her.
The irony being that each of the plates she was scraping pasta off, and avoiding peas on, had been carefully selected from different thrift shops and vintage stores around the country. A story and an experience went with every single one. The crockery that guy had accumulated was more consciously chosen than anything she had ever chosen for herself in her entire life. So I guess it’s understandable that she couldn’t comprehend it.
There are dried hydrangeas hanging upside down from the wooden ceiling beams, and uneaten canapés on the counter, and the fridge is full of dips, and prosciutto wrapped in baking paper, and tomorrow’s juice, and today’s milk. Everyone seems to have their own shelf, too. Like, someone doesn’t prioritize their physical well-being, because there’s hardly anything on their shelf: a half-eaten jar of pickles, an old stick of butter still in the foil, a moldy jar of feta in oil with thyme and peppercorns. There’s another person who might carry a bit of extra weight—physically, emotionally, mentally—because you can’t even see the back of their shelf. It’s so full. There’s a carton of eggs, three jars of the exact same homemade relish, a large block of milk chocolate still in the paper, an opened can of kidney beans, a small wheel of Brie cheese in Glad Wrap, and a few unevenly sta
cked plastic containers with leftover meals in them. The third shelf—
“Hey, would you like some smoked salmon?”
“Oh. Ah, no, thank you.”
“You seem very interested in the fridge?”
“I am.”
“Not hungry?”
“That’s chill, that’s chill. I just can’t shut up about the salmon because I smoked it, see? And I brought the capers, and the diced red onion, and the cream cheese, and the little bits of toasted fucking sourdough, and the little fucking dish over there. Yep. All me, baby. Sure you don’t want a smidge?”
“I don’t eat animals.”
“Philosophical or health reasons?”
“What’s the difference.”
“Touché. So, who do you know?”
“At . . . this party?”
“Yeah.”
“Umm. Someone who used to live here.”
“Right? Well. I don’t know anyone who lives here. I came with friends. Pretty sweet pad, though. I fucking love high ceilings. Where do you live?”
“Across town.”
“Mysterious. That’s chill, that’s chill. I can dig it. I like your kimono.”
“Thanks.”
“And your fringe. There’s something about chicks with fringes.”
“Is there.”
“Yeah.”
“Hmm.”
“Is that a martini you’re sipping?”
“Umm. Yeah.”
“Did you make it?”
“Yes.”
“Care to . . . hook a brother up?”
“Ok.”
“Maybe in a jar? Man, share house jar-glasses. What can you do?”
“A psychic once told me to never trust a man who smiles with his teeth.”
“Lol! Really? Why? What are you supposed to smile with?”
“Your eyes.”
“Do I not smile with my eyes?”
“No.”
“You can’t see my eyes from over there.”
“Yes, I can.”
“No, you can’t. Shiittt! Strong fucking drink!”
“Too strong?”
“Nah, nah. It’s good. It’s good. So do you have a boyfriend lurking about somewhere, or?”
“Not really.”
“Not really?”
“I think I might . . . leave now.”
“Wait, wait, wait. Are we vibing, or?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Stay a bit to find out?”
“I feel like I’ve . . . stayed.”
“How about some coke?”
“Ah, no.”
“K?”
“No.”
“P?”
“No, thank you.”
“They’re cruelty fucking free.”
“I . . . highly doubt that.”
He was outside the kitchen door talking with a group of people when I walked in, and it clearly didn’t matter to him what I was thinking, or feeling, or what my attention was already on. He needed it, and he was willing to do almost anything to get it.
Everything he did and said seemed cute, and innocuous, and self-effacing, and hospitable, when it was actually an attempt to dominate me and our interaction. I’d bet that in almost any given social situation he wants to be seen as the funniest, and the sexiest, and the most considerate, and the most intelligent, and the most charismatic, and the most creative, and the most competent, and the most original, and every moment becomes about him accomplishing this at the expense of all else.
He believes that the world exists for him, and whenever he enters a room it must become about him. All natural conversation falters and all silences are quickly filled. His curiosity isn’t genuine—it has an agenda. Every glance and every gesture are part of a larger scheme.
His calculated clothing choices aren’t expressive. They’re tokenistic, predetermined, and stifling. Every cowboy hat, high-heeled boot, set of grillz, tattoo, skateboard, zany dressing gown, pair of colored glasses, loud shirt, silk shirt, leather pants, vintage baseball cap, quartz crystal, and piece of peroxide hair is desirous of a specific outcome, because he’s arrogant enough to think that he can control how others perceive him.
Man. Some seriously huge stars must have collided the moment when receiving positive reinforcement from others became such a big deal. How did it turn into something that people will literally ditch their friends for, and chase after? Being validated and appreciated is supposed to come as naturally to us as breathing.
Am I meant to feel sorry for him? Am I meant to be all like, oh, poor guy, he just didn’t know how to go about interacting with me? Probably. It’s just that I can’t always take responsibility for other people’s limitations because they’re too lazy or too scared to do so. It’s important that they give themselves the love that they need. I mean, I’ve got my own fucking loving to do.
At least I didn’t smile too much like I used to. I used to smile like a moron through almost every social encounter I felt uncomfortable in, until I read somewhere that smiling when we don’t want to, or when we’re afraid, or feeling awkward, is a blatant sign of submission. On some primal level, people assume that we’re vulnerable and easily manipulated because we’re smiling too much.
So if I had smiled at him out of fear, he would’ve thought that he was “winning” and getting what he wanted out of me. And I, in turn, would have been misleading him.
I feel trapped behind my face.
34.
My body has taken me upstairs, and as I ascended I barely registered the surroundings. I’ve moved onto the balcony, and there are people crammed together, clutching their beers, and smoking their cigarettes, and frowning. I’m a bit over this party. I’m thinking of Porkchop and of the sandwich that I am going to make and eat, and I’m starting to wonder why I even came. I suppose I wanted to feel like I’m a part of something and I wanted to connect with other people. Two things I’m technically accomplishing. I’m pretty sure that feeling alone in a crowd is a shared experience.
That guy reminded me of this dude I once dated who fingered me until I bled. The whole time I was saying softer, softer, and he was like . . . “This is soft,” and I laughed and was, like, “Oh! I’m sorry. Is this your vagina?” He didn’t answer. Although, if he had, I’m pretty sure that the answer would’ve been:
Yes.
Because despite the fact I have more than twenty years of intimate, bodily, vaginal knowledge—which I have thoroughly enjoyed the process of acquiring and which I am more than happy to share the details of with others—most of the men who have come into contact with my body and/or vaginal region haven’t wanted to know anything about it. Especially when the wisdom that I’ve had to share involves saying no to what they’re doing or the way they’re doing it.
The men that I’ve been involved with seem to have a strong desire to know how to “do” everything, including women and their vaginas. Yet, more often than not, they’re unwilling to learn about how women and their vaginas like to be “done.” They cannot accept that every vagina, and every woman, has vastly different preferences. No two people or bodies are the same, therefore no two vaginas are the same.
The earth has a multitude of mountains, and rivers, and flowers, and volcanoes, and oceans, and types of grass, and snow, and wind, and lightning, and rain, and thunder, and sun, and cloud, and sunsets, and sunrises, and no two lightning strikes, or sunsets, are ever repeated. Ever.
It’s important to resist the urge to put things we can’t comprehend into cages and to try to
make them dance for us.
I get so tired of being a woman, because I can never seem to be “done” in the way that others want to “do” me. I just want to take my body off, hang it on a hook, and grab some air, because every stroke, whisper, request, poke, brush, smile, squeeze, lick, kiss, and breath can feel like a fight for territory.
I haven’t truly made love to someone or something other than myself in such a long time. I worry that intimacy and tenderness are becoming impossible ideals, rather than lived experiences. Surviving on this planet right now seems to be more about figuring out how to withstand being violated and exploited than it is about cultivating fulfilling relationships with ourselves, and with others.
It’s like we’ve lost touch with what true consent looks, feels, and sounds like, because we’re so inundated with ideas and information that we never consented to receiving in the first place. Now, we’re so preoccupied with all of these visions and fantasies of how our lives are supposed to be, and how our sexual experiences are supposed to be, and how our careers are supposed to be, and how our bodies are supposed to be, that we don’t actually know who we are.
And unless we take the time to stop and consider that, and what we value, we’re never going to know what we want, or how to say no to what we don’t want.
It doesn’t help that being overstimulated and distracted has become a social expectation. Cultivating self-knowledge isn’t seen as essential, because we can’t pop it on a CV, or take a photo of it, or impress our friends with it, or use it to get out of our next shift. We can’t pierce our septums with it, or use it to fit into jeans, or offer it up to the gossip that we chop up and eat for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, so as to ensure that we’re spared from the slaughter ourselves.