And yet!
"Did perpetual happiness in the Garden of Eden maybe get so boring that eating the apple was justified?" - Chuck Palahniuk
Oh God... everyday.
Every day I am secure. Every day I am cared for. Every day I take for granted that if I need something, he can give it to me. He is the rock I cling to in the seeming sea storm of my life. He has shown me what it is like to have a stable happy relationship - for that I am grateful, because at least I will never waste affections on someone less adoring and deserving than him ever again.
And yet can it be that even though I am grateful for it, I do not want it? Can it be even with this seeming perfection, this seeming pinnacle of my life, I want only to corrupt it and fall from it? What is it in me that makes me want to destroy something perfect? I cannot bear to behold something perfect indefinitely without the urge to fuck it all up.
Kurt Vonnegut said that people have a need to create drama in their lives, to make their graphs of ecstasy and despair through time do something more than tick up and down a little each day. This is why tragedies and "happily ever after" stories are so popular. He said this with, it seems, some kind of disdain. Normal life, he said (in not such mathematical terms), is a mostly horizontal function, limit (as time approaches infinity) approaching "meh", constant function (until death), slope of zero.
Christian called me a geek for using a similar function to describe the number of cats in my house over time.
While I would like to be able to loftily disdain along with Vonnegut, I cannot detach myself from the desire to make my own graph do something more. My limit may approach and average at "meh" by the end like everyone else's, but I don't want it to do so without a fight, without oscillation, without experiences, stories, memories.
God, how I know I adore James. I still enjoy spending time with him, I still enjoy his company. And yet he is only the third person in my life I have ever fucked. I want to feel different skin, taste different lips, fuck in different beds, different offices, with different people. I don't think I've even seen an uncircumcised cock before.
I still like to spend time with him. Cooking, eating out, going to the store, talking about how to plant a garden or build a chicken coop in my yard, listening to him talk about his train business and his union business - but I do not want to fuck him anymore. We tried and tried on Saturday night to get a good fuck in, and I simply could not come. I was not even particularly wet. I don't particularly want to sleep next to him anymore, I don't want to sleep in my own bed anymore. I want to wake up in bed at another man's house and feel a sort of wonder and curiosity at the rooms and all the things in them, and eat his strange food which is probably a different brand from a different store than mine, and walk home or drive back through his unfamiliar unexplored neighborhood to my house where I will view the familiarity with a new light, back from my adventures, home.
I do not look forward to sex with James anymore, it is just a given. There is nothing new, no surprises, the same smooth cock. Meanwhile I spend hours sitting on the lawn by Centennial Hall after class, looking on at the bastardly ugly Gould-Simpson Building, at his office, and feel my panties dampen; I spend hours awake in bed at night thinking I should call Christian and masturbate to the sound of his voice on the phone.
At this point I don't associate sex with feelings of love, comfort, familiarity. I don't associate it with a reconnecting with the one I am committed to. I associate sex with hormones, excitement, something new, unknown, the hunt, the chase, the kill. What do you smell like, taste like, feel like? I want to find out - and God, half the enjoyment is wondering. Sex for me at this point is not something to return to; it's something to go out and find, quest and journey for. It's about discovery.
Christian still wants me. I tried to shake him out of my mind, earnestly - I stopped, or at least attempted to stop, talking to him; to be fair, I initiated no conversation. I tried to focus all my attention on James while we were together. I sent Christian a letter saying I could not do this and why.
And yet even still I stare towards that ugly building when I can see it on campus. Oh, God.
Is it inevitable? It seems like thinking it's inevitable makes it inevitable. I feel such a strong desire to eat the damn apple. And yet if I think over and over, "James and I are meant to be", will it make it so? Months ago I thought I could be with him for a very long time, that he was perfect for me - but now all of those noble nesting thoughts have dissipated into manic midnight ravings of "Fuck love! Fuck stability! Fuck what I need! I'm young and pretty and I want to be a whore!"
Oh God... everyday.
Every day I am secure. Every day I am cared for. Every day I take for granted that if I need something, he can give it to me. He is the rock I cling to in the seeming sea storm of my life. He has shown me what it is like to have a stable happy relationship - for that I am grateful, because at least I will never waste affections on someone less adoring and deserving than him ever again.
And yet can it be that even though I am grateful for it, I do not want it? Can it be even with this seeming perfection, this seeming pinnacle of my life, I want only to corrupt it and fall from it? What is it in me that makes me want to destroy something perfect? I cannot bear to behold something perfect indefinitely without the urge to fuck it all up.
Kurt Vonnegut said that people have a need to create drama in their lives, to make their graphs of ecstasy and despair through time do something more than tick up and down a little each day. This is why tragedies and "happily ever after" stories are so popular. He said this with, it seems, some kind of disdain. Normal life, he said (in not such mathematical terms), is a mostly horizontal function, limit (as time approaches infinity) approaching "meh", constant function (until death), slope of zero.
Christian called me a geek for using a similar function to describe the number of cats in my house over time.
While I would like to be able to loftily disdain along with Vonnegut, I cannot detach myself from the desire to make my own graph do something more. My limit may approach and average at "meh" by the end like everyone else's, but I don't want it to do so without a fight, without oscillation, without experiences, stories, memories.
God, how I know I adore James. I still enjoy spending time with him, I still enjoy his company. And yet he is only the third person in my life I have ever fucked. I want to feel different skin, taste different lips, fuck in different beds, different offices, with different people. I don't think I've even seen an uncircumcised cock before.
I still like to spend time with him. Cooking, eating out, going to the store, talking about how to plant a garden or build a chicken coop in my yard, listening to him talk about his train business and his union business - but I do not want to fuck him anymore. We tried and tried on Saturday night to get a good fuck in, and I simply could not come. I was not even particularly wet. I don't particularly want to sleep next to him anymore, I don't want to sleep in my own bed anymore. I want to wake up in bed at another man's house and feel a sort of wonder and curiosity at the rooms and all the things in them, and eat his strange food which is probably a different brand from a different store than mine, and walk home or drive back through his unfamiliar unexplored neighborhood to my house where I will view the familiarity with a new light, back from my adventures, home.
I do not look forward to sex with James anymore, it is just a given. There is nothing new, no surprises, the same smooth cock. Meanwhile I spend hours sitting on the lawn by Centennial Hall after class, looking on at the bastardly ugly Gould-Simpson Building, at his office, and feel my panties dampen; I spend hours awake in bed at night thinking I should call Christian and masturbate to the sound of his voice on the phone.
At this point I don't associate sex with feelings of love, comfort, familiarity. I don't associate it with a reconnecting with the one I am committed to. I associate sex with hormones, excitement, something new, unknown, the hunt, the chase, the kill. What do you smell like, taste like, feel like? I want to find out - and God, half the enjoyment is wondering. Sex for me at this point is not something to return to; it's something to go out and find, quest and journey for. It's about discovery.
Christian still wants me. I tried to shake him out of my mind, earnestly - I stopped, or at least attempted to stop, talking to him; to be fair, I initiated no conversation. I tried to focus all my attention on James while we were together. I sent Christian a letter saying I could not do this and why.
And yet even still I stare towards that ugly building when I can see it on campus. Oh, God.
Is it inevitable? It seems like thinking it's inevitable makes it inevitable. I feel such a strong desire to eat the damn apple. And yet if I think over and over, "James and I are meant to be", will it make it so? Months ago I thought I could be with him for a very long time, that he was perfect for me - but now all of those noble nesting thoughts have dissipated into manic midnight ravings of "Fuck love! Fuck stability! Fuck what I need! I'm young and pretty and I want to be a whore!"