A Weekend Update…
“There’s probably someone else. Men can never keep their dicks in their pants.”
Wow.
“Thanks Mom! Great to see you too.”
I came home for the night to clear my head. Relax. Write. Reflect.
“He always seemed so guarded. Did he ever let his guard down? How can you love someone who has walls built up around them?”
Ugh. I slurped down all my green tea. She is right. The thing is, I did love him. I lived for him, but he was a regular Stonewall Jackson. He was cold most of the time and only when he was fully relaxed did I ever get to see the real him. We briefly felt love and joy and when we did it was great. I will miss him and will never be able to bake a batch of cookies without hearing his laugh.
You can’t change people. I can’t make him let me in. He would have to do it on his own terms. It’s ok. I’m ok. He was hard on me. He claimed to love me, but I think only under certain conditions. He never fully loved me. That hurts.
“I can’t believe you would ever leave the bedroom without having your hair and make-up done.”
Ouch. Yeah he said that to me.
I just want someone to love me. The real me. Not this fucking character Dixie(I heard someone is dancing under that name at the old tit factory. Bitch!). I have a big heart and so much love to give and I know I will find someone one day who will finally love me back.
Nil loved me harder than anyone ever has. He loved me when I was picked last. He loved my damaged soul. He loved me when I smelled. He loved me when I was a bitch. He loved me when I was sick. He loved to read my stories. He loved me when I was reckless. He loved me when I was fat. He loved me when I was skinny. He never gave up on me and always made me feel like I was worth more. He knew what I was capable of. The gift of his love has made me who I am today and I will never forget that.
I value every interaction I have had with anyone. I think people come into our lives and shape who we are. The key is to treasure it. I am embracing the unknown. I thought about going back to dancing, but I think that will put me 2 steps behind. I need to stop taking the easy way out when things get bad.
Michele called.
I answered. “Hello.”
“I am here. I am reaching out to you. I know everything is a mess.”
I started sobbing.
“DO NOT FUCKING CRY!”
I stopped.
“Calm down. You can do this. You are a survivor. You’ve been through a lot worse.”
She was right. I will be ok. I always am. I always know how to survive.
I will miss old El Douche. I will miss not getting to experience more of the highs. I am at peace. But now I have the opportunity to spend more time with myself. To write. To get this novel on the road. Think ‘Secret Diary Of A Call Girl’ meets ‘Party Girl’ meets ‘Bergdorf Blondes’ meets ‘Veronica’. Chick lit with gumption! Ew. I can’t believe myself. I went from worshipping Barbra Ehrenreich and Maureen Dowd, to spending my afternoons watching Bravo and reading trash novels.
What? It’s research. I know I have way more depth, but this shit sells. Plus, it’s sort of fun (can’t believe I just admitted that). It also makes me really want to have a family of my own. So random. I’ll just have to settle for going the Angelina Jolie route and pay the price of a cup of coffee per day to have my own little click clack to love and cherish and keep in a frame in my office.
Wait. I don’t have an office. But if I did…
(Sex & The City anyone?)
I’m still a little heart sick. I hate admitting when I am weak, but I’ve lost 5 lbs. So I can’t complain too much. T took me out for dinner last night. He knows me so well. He is a wonderful friend. We agreed a long time ago to not date because we value our friendship way too much. Plus I once saw him in a tracksuit.
I schlepped my ass to the Macaroni Grill and waited for him at the bar.
“Holy shit you’re early!” He gave me a big hug.
I am always 15 minutes late whenever I meet T. This pisses him off and he always reminds me.
He sat down and pointed at the bartender. “I’ll have a vodka on the rocks.”
I opened my mouth to splurt out my order.
“AND She’ll have a glass of Chardonnay.”
Fucker.
“You know you do this thing when you drink. You hold your drink in your mouth for like 5 seconds before you swallow it.”
Holy shit. I do. I have a really weird habit and I never even noticed it.
I took a sip of my drink.
“See! Right there! You did it.” He pointed at my face and laughed and in the same breath asked “what are you going to order?”
“I’m not hungry.” I slurped down more of my wine.
“You haven’t eaten in 3 days and you are telling me you aren’t hungry? You’re telling me there is nothing on this menu you want? Come on girly girl. Italian is your favorite.”
Actually it’s my second favorite to Mexican. But I won’t correct him.
“Ok. I’ll have cavatelli in butter.”
“You’re ordering BUTTERED NOODLES? You’re comical.”
I am listless. I don’t like listless. I like fun, but I am in a slump. I am crawling out of it. Pain fuels my writing. It also triggers me to do the most growing. I don’t have time for all this ‘woe is me’ bullshit. I feel betrayed. It’s normal. But there are a million people just walking among us who have worse problems. Who have bigger heartache and harder struggles.
Tomorrow I am going to go buy a new shade of lip gloss and move on gracefully. I equate lip gloss with events and people in my life. I didn’t know I did it until someone pointed it out. Just like T did. El Douche’s favorite was ‘Gothika’ by Nars. Noah hated make-up, but I equated some shimmery pink Chanel shade to that relationship. And Nil was a fan of some ‘not so innocent pink’ kind of shade. Was it Dior or MAC? I can’t recall. Nil also liked when I wore white cotton panties. I’m so not going there. I’ll leave that story for Dixie.
Also maybe making a seperate blog for this stuff and leave this blog for all the novel Dixie shit. Because the lines have begun to blur.
My mother is shouting up the stairs to me. Family dinner. I bid you adieu and promise to go back to writing about this Dixie gal.
Cue the Ting Ting’s.
That’s not my name. That’s not my name. That’s not my name….
For the record…
After I watched CBS Sunday morning this past Sunday I wanted to post a disclaimer.
The events in this blog are my memoirs.
I recall on the past, think about the future, and rarely ever write about today, but I hope you enjoy it.
This is my blog. I use it as a forum to develop characters and stories for this damn book I am writing.
It’s entertainment.
Enjoy it as such.
http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2009/01/27/sunday/main4755791.shtml
Making progress
T called. Made me laugh.
“I already know what a mess you are. When was the last time you ate?”
“3 days ago.” I said.
“We need to get you fed. Get dressed.”
Slowly making progress…
Just not that into you…
There is a hole in my heart.
I have tried to patch it up with make-up and men, but am always left with unsuccessful results. I put the hole there when I called off my wedding. I was scared. I ran the other way and broke the heart of a perfectly lovely man. The guilt still whirrs through my soul, but there is nothing to do, but remember to do the right thing the next time.
I liked El Douche for a little while. He was nice. I guess. But a complete bullshit artist. He’s the type of man that’ll never be satisfied. I know. I dance for them.
We broke up. I have to move out. Back to the old luxe pad where I will throw myself into work until I can get over it and worry about myself again.
I am over him. I just feel ill over the fact he lied to me when I know the truth. I mean, I may not have all my morals intact, but I feel as if my heart is in the right place. I combed through his e-mail and discovered he had been with a hooker in Vegas. That doesn’t bother me. After I had hard core evidence of his X rated rendezvous he said I was ‘wrong’.
“How the fuck could he do that to you? You’re the best there is around.” Noah said.
He sensed something was wrong and called me. We spoke for nearly an hour. Catching up. None of our friends would know because we would be crucified for coming into contact again. His friends hate me. I hate his friends.
He scolded me for a good 10 minutes about how dangerous writing it all down is.
“Your brother could find this you know. DO you KNOW how devastating that would be?”
He was right. He is always right.
I like living on the edge.
We said our goodbyes. It felt good hearing his voice.
This week has been terrible. I lost an amazing person in my life. El Douche kicked me to the curb. And now my sis is in the hospital…again. I sat on the couch shaking like jello.
I texted El Douche.
My sis is in the hospital.
He texted back.
I’m in a meeting with 20 people!!!!
Oh how lucky I am to have such a sympathetic ex boyfriend.
Nothing a little white wine and Margot & The Nuclear So and So’s can’t help.
Maybe Walter will call.
getting out
I am numb. I have been for the last 8 months. I could never relate to El Douche. Sometimes, he would let me in and it was perfect. It was all I wanted, but it would always go back to him putting up his wall and leaving me out to fend for myself. There are plenty of women who would like a guy like El Douche, but I do not have time for his games (Maybe if he was cuter). I think perhaps I am too strong, too busy building a career to be at his beckoning call.
I gave him space. I gave myself space. We didn’t love each other. We wanted to, but neither of us feigned the interest.
I knew he still loved her. The one he really loved. They were together for four years. They loved and they lived. His face would brighten when he would talk about her. It made my heart ache. It made it impossible for me to wholly love him.
One day I was leaving post it notes around his house with little messages of kindness and love and I found photo albums. I accidently stabbed myself in the heart when I saw all of the pictures of them together.
It hurt.
I wanted to feel something more than this hurt so I tore through his house. Finding boxes of her clothes, letters, photographs….I felt her presence here more than I ever had. It killed me; made me take a step back. I flipped through their photo albums. The pictures of them broke my heart. It was then that I stopped loving. Boarded my heart up; ready for the hurricane.
I was jealous. What right does anyone have to feel jealousy? Perhaps I wished I had been the only one. I couldn’t bear the weight of this pain. So I started back on my road forward, making no plans for him. No room left in my attic for all of this tired metamorphosis.
I made the decision to love him. I let this force take over me. How could I be so weak? First time jealousy tore me up worse than first time love.
We rarely had sex. When we did, it was different. He never came and neither did I. We grew so far apart. He stopped holding me in his arms, stopped wanting to know what I was up to, whom I was with. I started seeing other people, worrying about myself and eventually we stopped talking, stopped communicating. We trapped ourselves in a loveless relationship and now I am pawing, desperately trying to get out…
For now…
When Noah and I dated our relationship was turbulent. It wasn’t easy, but the sex was. Our relationship only worked when we locked ourselves away from the outside world, drink and drug induced. There were no sexual boundaries with us. We did it all. We never said no to what the other suggested.
Noah and I spent most afternoons in bed. Eating each other up like big love crumbs. An e.e. cummings poem in motion. Fueled with a diet of ecstasy, cocaine, and Veuve Clicqout, we kissed fiercely and fucked. No, not making love, just fucking. I know the difference now. I am an expert at sex, it has become my livelihood. Between, dancing and my sexual awakening with Noah, I am a regular Belle de Jour.
He didn’t love me. He loved the idea of me- of having a beautiful young girlfriend. He wanted me to be something I wasn’t or at least wasn’t at this time in my life. He tried to change me, to morph me into the woman I was in his mind. He controlled me. Even if he wasn’t around he controlled me. He was always there in my mind. From choosing what outfit to wear to what nail polish color he would find acceptable. For a while, I let him try and change me. There is no possible way someone can break these porcelain walls that surround me. He tried to penetrate through me, but I am locked up tighter than Fort Knox.
After awhile, I knew I wasn’t enough. I’d find little bits of condom wrappers tucked in corners, under the bed, torn corners that never made it to the waste bin. I hunted and I found the others. From his late night rendezvous with strangers, to his alter ego on websites.
He hated the drinking. Hated my dancing. Hated me having a life of my own. All of these were threats over his iron grip of my life and he grew angry and dark and evil. He hated that I knew his secrets. I knew the dark under belly of the clean main line lifestyle he tried to portray. So we would argue and fuck. Argue and fuck harder.
Eventually this vicious control took a toll on me. It was ok for him to be deceitful, but I wasn’t allowed to have my own life. I was just a puppet in his great show.
Life with Red is calm. It’s quiet and put together. He is a simple man. I am so attracted to him physically. His body is like a Greek god. He is tall enough for me to wear my highest heels and not dwarf him, like I do to most men. His body is chiseled and lean. He has the most amazing narrow hips. I love them. I always find myself wandering my hands around them in public, underneath the covers. He has a beautiful mouth. Straight red hair and mysterious eyes. I can never decide if they’re more brown or more green.
Sex with him is slippery and strong. He’s careful not to hurt me because he knows he can hurt me if he isn’t. I cup one hand on his shoulder and run my other hand down his muscular back. It’s missionary, it’s me on top. It’s simple, like him. His movements are steady and strong. Only one time after we’d had too much wine did we break from the mold. It was like it wasn’t him. He threw me over the bed in the guest room and thrusted me from behind. Holding me back in his strong, muscular arms, tossing me like a rag doll into different movements. It made me wet and excited. Before I knew it he entered me anally.
He grabbed my face and whispered, “Look at me. Look in my eyes when I’m in you.” I was taken back by this man whom I didn’t know. “Play with yourself”. He ordered me to rub my clit while he pleasured himself in my ass.
When we were done he wrapped me in his massive arms. Kissed my forehead and whispered “You were wonderful”. He is what I imagined the perfect man to be.
Of course with stress from work and his busy schedule, and my odd hours for sleep and work, Red and I haven’t had much time for each other as of late. He also (still) ‘doesn’t get’ me. Doesn’t understand my humor or my jokes or my quirky little things. It’s exhausting dealing with his uptight ways.
Remember that fella’ I mentioned before? Walter. Yes, we will call him Walter. Most people find it a bit strange that I have more male friends than females. I just don’t particularly get along well with most females. They judge me, they get insecure, and to be honest don’t know how to deal with my brash humor. Now, I don’t sleep with all my male friends. But there have been exceptions…
I feel comfortable with Walter. I can be myself with him. The real nerdy, quirky, silly girl I am. And it’s as simple as that. We watch trash TV and drink red wine. Laughing and talking about everything from my Red, to politics, and even Lindsay Lohan.
Walter’s fashion diet is an absolute perfect balance of designer denim and limited edition sneakers. He is desperately handsome without trying; perfect fair skin and dark beautiful curls that I sweep out of his face so I can look in his mesmerizing blue eyes. His smile is contagious. He is cool and collected and takes my breath away. He makes love to me slow and gentle whispering kisses in my ear.
Most nights when I sleep I am always kicking and fighting against sheets. But with Walter he holds me in his arms. Kissing me. “You’re so beautiful” he says. I rub my cold feet between his. I fall asleep in his arms easily. I sleep at most peace when I sleep next to him. I only awoke briefly once to him soothing my cramps by rubbing my belly gently and softly. I smiled and fell back asleep until he left for work. Tucking me in and kissing my forehead; leaving early morning television on to drain out the morning rush hour on the street below us.
Each man is different, never the same. I suppose that’s why I love men so much, always a different creature that I so desperately want to know and learn. Some I discard from my life and the ones that are worth keeping stay.
For now anyway.
Lubricant
I masturbated furiously before I went to pick up the Latina from work. I fucked myself for an hour listening to music videos churning out of Fuse TV. Ramming my little hole with my fluorescent pink ‘rabbit’ and plenty of lube. The Rolls Royce of sex toys, naturally. It makes me cum hard and mechanical, it drives my body to have seizure like orgasms. After I came, I went into the living room to write and sip wine. Grey wool knee highs with bows around the top, a lacy pink g-string, and a piece of black lace wrapped around my matted blonde hair.
I looked down at my blinking Blackberry a message from the Latina.
Get excited Pookie!
I was running late so I pulled a heavy grey wool sweater coat over a pair of black yoga pants and ventured out into the snow with my Burberry boots. I drove into the city seething with anger. For some reason the city of Philadelphia and all its surrounding suburbs seem to always forget how to drive whenever any ounce of precipitation may fall from the heavens above.
I pulled up to the Latina’s office just as she came leaping down the iron staircase. She has more energy than a 3 year old that has just had an espresso and a new puppy. She opened the door and swung her gigantic cream leather bag onto the floor. Then she shrieked “HEYYYYYYYYYY POOOOOKIIIEEEEES!!!” The Latina has a habit of shrieking at the top of her lungs anytime she sees me or anyone she may know. I have come to love and cherish it, others may not.
We met up with my dear friend Justin at P.J. Whelihan’s in Cherry Hill. It is the closest bar to my current living situation. I ordered the nachos, I always order nachos and I drank beer. Did you just read that again? Yes, I had a beer (at Justin’s discretion of course).
We drank and gossiped and being with 2 of my dearest friends made everything calm. I felt ok, if even for a moment. We said our goodbyes. I drove home to a perfectly good soundtrack.
El Douche wasn’t home. He was pissed at me for some ridiculous comment I made. I am always good at those, especially when alcohol is involved.
I tried to sleep, but I was left tossing and turning with the flat screen as a glowing backdrop. I went into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of red wine to chase the 3 Tylenol PM’s I was going to take. I feel as if I can’t do anything anymore without some kind of lubricant. It makes things easier. It makes you feel good.
Even if it is only temporary.
And we’re back…
I stopped for a while. I stopped because I was in love. But now I am back and it is a lovely break from my pathetic existence.
I don’t think I’ve stopped loving him, but I just am so unsure. He is an impeccable man. A flawless stone, but I’m still the same old diamond in the rough. Still trying to pass the time dancing and writing over $13 bottles of Night Harvest.
I moved out of my luxe apartment and over the bridge and through the woods to New Jersey. For now. Until I can manage to save a little money and take care of myself again. Living with him is a roller coaster sometimes awkward and weird, other times its all I could have ever wanted. I’ll make do for now. Creeping in and out at odd hours. You see, he has no idea what I do and until I can figure out how to tell him, I will continue to practice my lies just in case I choose a future career in politics.
I try to find her again, Dixie. Pull her out of my dark wretched soul. Sprinkle her with fairy dust and transform her into the Southern beauty everyone loves. I try and I try and I try. Desperately trying to make money, to remember the hustle, but I keep getting drunker and telling them my sob story. They don’t want to hear that. They don’t give a shit about me.
I gave one of them my real name and he gave me his card. He was handsome and funny. We sat for hours talking about life, music, and art. I liked him. He knew my old friends. And we drank and we laughed and we laughed and we laughed.
My phone rang the next day. And he asked for me-not for Dixie. But she was there waiting for a glimmer of a moment, a twinkle from the Christmas lights, ready to pounce. But when I arrived to his house it was the real me. Pink chuck taylor’s and graphic tee. No make-up hair swept up neatly off my face.
“There she is!” He exclaimed as he kissed my cheek in one of those awkward entrance half hug/half kiss moments.
I smiled. “Hello Walter.”
We spent the night entangled on the couch watching Bravo and MTV. Laughing and chatting in a hazy fog of Oregon Pinot Noir and percocets. We made love four times. He gave me the greatest orgasms in my sexual history.
The next morning we said our goodbyes in the elevator and I rounded the corner to the Latina’s office. I brought her coffee and made her boss uncomfortable so I journeyed back to Jersey to prepare to transform myself back into the Southern whore.
That night, I danced to Kings of Leon. It made me think of Dani while I was dancing under the whirring disco ball. It made me miss her. How she didn’t judge me for my poor choices. I just wanted someone to love me. And I was back there again feeling hopelessly alone.
