So far I’m feeling that intoxicating relief of ending unhealthy relationships on good notes. Now that I’ve made up my mind to return to the land of my God-son these men from my past no longer resonate in the places they once held guard. The NYX for example, entertained me over drinks Friday night for nearly three hours and at no point did I want to kiss him. He leaned over once to touch my hair–to feel the texture change between curly to straight–and it was as if he were a doctor or a stylist. My skin didn’t pucker in want. My heart didn’t pound into my rib cage or sink into my belly.Without the dumbing affects of love, I recognized that had I stayed with him, he would’ve eventually made me miserable because he is a man who is never content with today and spends all his energy clawing his way (uphill) into tomorrow.
The night before drinks, I will admit, I had sex with the midget. You know what though? It wasn’t spiritual. I didn’t feel anything deeper than momentary lust. In fact, he might as well been my vibrator and even then, my vibrator and I have been through more together. Maybe I used to think it was spiritual before I really understood what spiritual looked like and smelled like. Now I know better.
I remember the night in Port Antonio when I lay flat on my back in the pick-up truck and watched the hazy stars through the jagged trees that lined the dirt road, sail by above my eyes. That night I’d thought of the midget in shades of love rather than lust. Rosy colored hues that are mainly reserved for ninth grade catholic school girls, but I allowed him to join my thoughts regardless because that night, far away from the gritty excuses of New York, I deemed him worthy.
When I told him about it the next day he said he didn’t want to date me. Fucking me was fine. Talking to me everyday for the past nine months was fine. But dating was something reserved for another girl I’d never be.
There, surrounded by the sea and earth, filled up to my throat with the love of my friends, that was spiritual. That was love. Sex with the midget was merely something to do on a Thursday night. Like washing my hair. Afterwards I felt clean because I knew he’d washed off my back like water and shampoo down a drain. Swirling and slow to go at first, but once passed, it was as if he’d never come at all.
