Love or Something Like It April 14, 2008

Theonly guy I ever loved called me ugly the night that we broke up. Actually, the night that he broke up with me although I’m the one who told him to leave. I knew it was the right decision for us to break up. It had been brewing openly for a week and on the hemisphere of my thoughts for more than that, but when he was gone I was totally lost. Flung into despair.

That was the last time I had sex with anybody I cared about. After the only man I’d ever loved–I mean LOVED body soul and spirit–called me ugly and looked at me with eyes flush with hate, I could not bring myself to have sex with another man I cared about. It was easy. After him I never really cared about any man anyway.

Now I separate the two: love and sex. I love my friends and my family. I sex men who I barely know and realize I’ll never see again. Momentarily I find something about them that is beguiling, but when its over I don’t cry like I did for months after the ugly comment. I assume they will leave because who could stay with a girl as ugly as me? If the only man I ever loved couldn’t love me back or even be kind to me when leaving, then how could I expect anymore from anybody else?

Whenever I meet someone new and they tell me I’m pretty I see Nate’s eyes and I know they are lying.

The scary part is that I don’t know how to like someone new. I cannot wrap my mind around having a physical relationship with a person I care about because my heart has not recovered from the wreckage of last time.

I am so afraid to walk that line of hope and inevitable disappointment that comes with a new infatuation. I really want to be in love. I really want to meet somebody that I can be best friends with and know with full certainty loves me back. I need to meet somebody who will not make me feel like a second choice girl. Boyfriends of the past have gotten married while dating me, cheated on me, lied to me, had me walk in on them having sex with other girls, threw me into brick walls, and decided they’d rather get drunk, high or both with their boys instead of spending a thursday night cooking dinner with me.

If second choice girl was a syndrome I’d be terminal. In total honesty (and because this is a private blog) I don’t want to settle for my second choice either. I try to like these guys who are nice enough and show enough interest in me, but they aren’t me first choice and I know if I met someone else I’d only break their hearts.

Is it so hard to find a first-choice guy who makes me his first-choice too?

Well I am certain of this much: I cannot have another disappointment in my romantic life and live through it with 100% optimism. At this point I’m barely getting through the day at 70.

Wrapping It Up February 4, 2008

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.

That Old Familiar Ache December 23, 2007

July fourth, my birthday, your birthday, labor day weekend, thanksgiving, for all these days I’ve missed him, holding my peace.  Tomorrow will be Christmas Eve and the next day Christmas. I will probably miss him then too. Then of course New Year’s Eve, when he will be up north kissing a girl who doesn’t ache for him, like I ache for him. I’ll probably be kissing someone too, someone who will taste sour to me for the simple reason that He is not Him.

For the last eleven days I have gone to bed every night talking to him across the sea. I talk to him online as well and I’ve let him know twice that it would be OK to call. Bu he doesn’t call He isn’t a phone person. Knowing this doesn’t make it any less annoying, by the way. So for these eleven nights I have wanted to say that I love you. If he actually called me I’d be a wreck, falling all over myself with words that are too true in my head and so common when spoken out loud.

The mushiness makes me nauseous. It’s not unfounded like some love-sick contrite bitch, it’s really something.  We have good conversation, have a lot in common, fight to the death and still manage to never go more than two weeks without contact in seven months. To be frank–we’ve only had good sex twice, as far as I’m concerned, and I still think the world of him, so how’s that for real love?

I know he’ll never really love me back though, not until I’m gone. Not until I’m out of the picture for good, with some other man. He says he ‘likes me’ unless he’s drunk when it changes to love or in love, but the next day when the drink is finally pissed from his system, he’s all apologies and reaffirmations that he meant like.

The fact that all those pertinent days passed without hearing from him is proof enough he doesn’t return my affections.  Still he’s only ever ignored me once and that was the night I told him I slept with two other guys since the last time we were together. We weren’t officially ‘together’, but only in the same place physically. Very physically. We had a huge blow out via text then I asked if he hated me. He didn’t respond until two weeks later when he drunk dialed me when I was on my way home in a cab to tell me that he’s in love with me.

He gives me butterflies. Every. Time. Every IM, text, drunk dial. Every time we see each other, I just love him. I want to fall to the ground and cry because I’m scared it will always be the last time. He’s said we aren’t a good fit. I’ve said so. I lied. I hope he did too though I doubt it. How is it possible for him to admit still liking me after seven months and in the same breath say that we are ill-suited? He’s going to break my heart a hundred more times until I stop thinking about him when I masturbate.

My Jewish Midgit June 15, 2007

Time for a big confession: I’m falling madly in love with a Jewish Midget.

We met a week ago at Mercury Bar after this jerk asked me out in front of his girlfriend. I was so repulsed I ran down the block, ducked into the bar, and leaned up against a wall to get my drunken bearings. That’s when he started talking to me–a voice from below.

At first I didn’t pay him much attention but minutes later he had me doubled over in laughter. That’s right–the midget made me laugh with my entire body until I thought I couldn’t stand up anymore.

OK ok, he wasn’t really a midget, he was just my height. Exactly. Without shoes on. And Jewish.

Next thing I know, we’re next door having pizza, outside side sharing a cigarette, then back in the bar, making out in a booth to Shakira’s ‘Hips Don’t Lie’. I just couldn’t get enough of him, everything about him was intoxicating. It was like magic. He got me and I got him.

Every guy in the bar stared at us in total disbelief. Me with my voluptous, sexy curves and newly blonde hair, and him, buried half way in my boobs on the dancefloor.

The next day he texted me: Hey suga. I was immediately in love.

Last night we went on our first date–possibly the best first date I’ve had in years. I figured I didn’t want to play games. He wont marry me anyways, I’m not Jewish. So we had sex. (Let me say, not everything about him was dwarfed). 3 times.

Sigh. So this is love.

Bo My Boyfriend July 11, 2006

I call Bo my boyfriend when I’m giving tours at work. My boyfriend, the actor, i say. When men call, email, and solicit me on the street, I tell them: no thanks, I have a boyfriend, he’s Matt Damon’s body double and we’re veryyy serious.

If Bo ever heard me say that, he’d crack up. We are the furthest thing from that. Sure-when we’re together we get along well and we have a lot in common, but to ever call our relationship a ‘relationship’ would be absurd and dellusional. (hello–do you know me at all?)

Convienient, is what it is. There’s an understanding, though we don’t really need to define it with words. He’s serious about his career, and I’m serious about…well…finding a husband. Many months ago I informed Bo that we were never getting married. He said, you never know, and I said, no really, never. But we sleep together. (yes–sleep only). We haven’t had sex since the week we met. Honestly, its not like that with us.

I think maybe we could seriously date in the future though, when he’s more settled and I’m mature enough for a relationship. And if he convinces me he’s totally straight–that has a lot of influence on things as well.

Side note: my mother called, from Jamaica, specifically one day, out of the blue, to tell me she thinks Bo is gay.

It’s been two weeks since I’ve seen Bo my boyfriend, however, because he got pulled into a new Matt movie, unexpectedly. Wow–my boyfriend is famous. Bo is such a safe boy for me. The more I type this, the more I think he really is gay.

I Heart Bo June 25, 2006

Emotionally, its been a rough week. The highs were high and the lows were low, but never as low as last night. Several nights this week I had nightmares. Horrible detailed dreams, about things I wish not discuss. Towards the end of the week, I’d wake up shaking and clenched. I have a cut on my inner bottom lip, from biting nervously in my sleep. Last night I was terrified to go to sleep alone.

Although I was totally exhausted, my terror kept me awake. Thank God for Bo. (The Actor). I texted him to come sleep over because I was afraid, and he left a party and come right away. When he got there he knew I was upset, and although I didn’t want to talk about it, he carried me over to my bed, put his arm around me, and made me talk.

Except I didn’t talk. I just cried. I cried and cried, for no exact reason, and the only words I could get out was: nobody here cares about me.

Bo was so sweet to me. He told me that I was ridiculous because everyone who meets me cares about me. He told me that I’m a person that people can’t help but love. ‘your girls at work care about you–your next door nieghbour cares about you–and so does your friend tim. The only people that don’t care about you are these douches that you insist on dating, excluding me, of course, because I care about you a lot.’

And then he made me laugh and told me that I look cute when I cry, when I announced that I looked like a wreck. So for the rest of the night, he slept with his arms around me in case I had a bad dream. Do you see what I mean when I feel safe with Bo? I’m really amazed that I have such horrible taste in men I date, and such supreme luck in one-night-stands. I don’t know if we could ever be anything serious–especially since he knows all my secrets–but I’m definately glad I have him as my friend in New York.

Safety May 27, 2006

I have a slight crush on the actor. It’s not an all-consuming, must-be-near-him, type of feeling, although I enjoy hanging out. We are comfortable around each other. We have things in common. It’s wierd. We don’t even have sex anymore. Just foreplay. It’s good enough.

More importantly, I’m totally honest with him. Without hesitation, I tell him private and sometimes nasty things about myself. He knows that little things make me throw up. He knows about the HPV and potential cervical cancer, that so alarmed Nate. I told him from the beginning and it was never an issue. (As it shouldn’t be, it can’t hurt him). He knows about me and my boss, and he knew I had lunch with Nate on Thursday.

The thing is, he treats me so well. SOOO well. He’s really a darling to me. But it’s not earth-moving, which is probably a good thing. If I had to go back to Jamaica, I would not be upset leaving him. Does that mean I don’t like him, or I don’t appreciate him? It feels luke warm and convienient, but at the same time, I really like hanging out.

You know what? It feels like an old relationship. Something worn in and weathered, years ago, so that now we can be open and have a good time.

He’s gone away for the weekend. I’m sure I’ll hear from him when he gets back. Not that I’m worried. I know he’ll call. Maybe that’s why I feel so relaxed…he gives me this stability without any expectation of committment. He knows I am dating other guys. He lets me know that he’s only dating me, although he’s open to dating other girls. This feels so safe to me. Safe enough to give it up.

Scandlous May 18, 2006

I got back into bed yesturday morning, depressed. My job interview was horrible and my numbers at work are bad. The actor came out of the closet over myspace.com, meaning that I’d turned ANOTHER one gay. I picked up the phone and called into work depressed. Speaking to my boss did not seem like an option so instead, i left a message. He called back.

Me: Kyle, I’m not coming into work, I’m too depressed.
Kyle: Amanda, stop being so melo-dramatic and get your ass into work. we’re having a one day sale.
Me: i don’t care. i’m depressed and I’m never leaving this bed again.

click.

5 mins later…

Me: what’s the sale?
Kyle: no initiation, ten dollars off monthly dues.
Me: fuck. fine. i’ll be there in ten.

click.

Explaining that I turned another one gay was the only way to keep him off my back when I got to work, so I did. That sent the office into shrieks and histerics and for the rest of the day, I recieved pitying looks and reassurances of my feminine abilities. (Not the mention offers of straight sex–but that’s the norm at my job).

By the evening I couldn’t take it anymore. How could he come out of the closet over myspace.com and not have the decency to tell the girl he’s sleeping with? I texted him.

Me: So…r u gay now?
Him: my ex broke into my myspace and voicemail and changed the passwords so she could claim I’m gay…I’m dealing witht he authorities right now.

Oh. SO he’s not gay then? I’m unconvinced.

Aroung 8PM, Kyle offers to buy me a drink. it was a day that deserved a drink. well…one drink became two…two became three…the bartender started comping me mixed drinks…yadda yadda…i was drunk. I texted the actor again.

Me: i’m drunk have sex with me
Him: sorry, i’m at work. come by.

After much pleading, I get Kyle to agree to come with me to the bar to see him. I need some reinforcement and a shoulder to lean on while crossing the street. I realize: the actor is sweet, but he doesn’t care about me. Meanwhile, Kyle and I are flirting…we’re drunk…we leave.

On the walk uptown he kisses me. Whoa! He is my boss and he is engaged. He should not be kissing me. I kiss him back.

Then we’re in a taxi. Then we’re in the elevator going up to my apartment. Shit! Shit! SHIT!

Clothes come off, lights don’t turn on,,,we can’t do this, we can’t do this…

Finally, somewhere on the living room floor I stopped it. We didn’t have sex. I chased my boss out my apartment and back to his poor unsuspecting fiance. No no…even when I’m drunk, I am still a first choice girl! damnit!

Even if I turn men gay, I am still a first choice girl!

Fuck, I have to go to work now. Maybe I will take some time off and go to Jamaica…I need a break from all these fucking scandalous men.

PS May 11, 2006

did i mention the actor was a Sigma Chi in college? Wow…it took a whole year, but I finally got what I wanted for graduation. Sex with a Sigma Chi. Oy, and now it’s gone…

Don’t Date Actors May 11, 2006

Remember the actor I was dealing with last weekend? The guy I intended to be my first hot and dirty NY one-night-stand? The same one that turned out to be a funny, smart, decent, potential boyfriend?

Well I think I ruined it. Of course, I ruin EVERYTHING!!!!

Yesturday, inspired by a fantastic 9AM meeting with a hot new magazine, and filled with an overwhelming disdain for my current job, I called in sick. (I was sick of work, damn it!). Then I texted the actor: taking the day off…laying in bed watching movies…want to join?

He was running late for an important audition and promised he’d call me afterwards. He couldn’t wait. I am very good sex, after all. tee hee. At least, ever since I got to NY I’ve been very good sex. (not the point, back to the story).

Two hours go by. I text again: hello…come fuck me!

He calls laughing and convinces me to go nine blocks down to his place. Fine. I’ve travelled further distances to get laid before. He meets me at the corner in his PJ’s and no underwear. He hasn’t shaved…something about needing to look scruffy for a part. Damn, life is good. He holds my hand and waltz’s me through the misty streets of Manhattan to pick up lunch and tell me about the audition.

Why have I been so hard on actors? Actors are hot. He is hot.

We get back to his apartment and its gorgeous–two views–better than my view, if that’s possible. After a red wine glass full of white, he tells me we’re going out for margarittas. But baby, I’m already drunk, i say. No no, that’s not possible. Don’t I want margarittas? Won’t it be fun to go drinking at 3 in the afternoon and have kinky drunk sex?

OK. I guess.

So we get margarittas and talk to the waitress at Baby Bo’s, my favoraite. Wow, he’s really great, I really like him. Shh. No I don’t. He’s an actor and an occaisional coke head–what am I doing?

Before I know it, he’s paid the bill and picked me out of my seat. Time for drunk sex. Here’s the problem…I am TOO drunk to have sex now. I try anyway.

At first it’s OK…he’s doing most of the work because I’m too loopy to try. I have a vague memory of saying, I love you, tell me you love me too…just pretend. So he said, I love you, and flipped me over. Two seconds later I announced: I’m going to sleep now and literally FELL ASLEEP MID-DOGGIE STYLE. duuudeeee……..what a wipe out.

Yes, I’ll wait for you to finish laughing…..

I remember opening my eyes for a bit and seeing him sitting at the bottom of the bed watching ‘Anchor Man’ and eating a sandwhich. “Will you wake me up when its time to go?” I ask. “Of course, will you give me head before you leave?” he questions. Maybe…

Half an hour goes by and he curls up beside me. I open my eyes again and my head is on his chest, my forehead touching his unshaved chin. “Wake up babe, it’s time to go”. Still drunk and not totally sure what to do or say, I blurted out: hey, do you like me?

of course I like you.

I kissed his face. Next question. Do you want to date me?

no answer.

no answer.

he kissed my forehead. It’s time to go. “Will you give me head?”

“No. I gave you head when I got here. You got off once, I got off zero, we’re even”. Then I got dressed. We walked down to the corner awkwardly, and not particularly as lovey-dovey as the day began. “Will you call me?” I ask. “Maybe” he says. I delete his number from my phone as I navigate traffic and head home to pass out for another hour.

Whatever. I don’t date actors anyways.