I have done my best to avoid writing today.
I simply didn’t want to understand the cause of my pain. I didn’t want to cogitate its authority. But I knew the second, from the hateful moment I realized that my sleep last night was going to be disturbed, I knew that today I’d be faced with another burden of understanding the folly of my ways.
And I’ve grown tired of understanding. Why can’t I simply experience attraction for another man, without some lousy lesson to be learned? Why can’t I simply stumble into the lap of another man, excuse myself, and be caught off-guard by his mischievous grin? Why can’t I feel the weight of someone else’s foot crushing my toe, then feel an apologetic hand rest on my shoulder, and a smokey voice whisper into my ear, “excusez-moi, je ne vous avais pas vu.”
But no. I’ve always got to meet men whose interest borders on the absurd. It’s not me they want, but some fraction of me. Yes, they want to it terribly. And they’ll do everything they can to get it. What I don’t understand is how obvious they can be. These men won’t even begin to disguise their true intentions. They’re so cocksure and almighty that their need will be met, it’s not a consequence to them if it means that mine will not be satisfied.
I said goodbye to Artem and his money desires; now I must say goodbye to the Parisian.
All I want to do is kiss. The Parisian refuses. Though he comes to my hotel room, dines on my food, and eventually kicks off his shoes and hops into my bed, we lay next to each, without even the degree of intimacy a dozen sardines enjoy in an oiled aluminum tin!
We lay there, fully clothed, watching TV, or like last night, I was writing and he playfully text me, quietly interrupting my writing. But he wasn’t tenderly interrupting the attention I was giving to my writing to draw it back to his own (which would have been charming), no, he was prompting me, to write more of this or more of that. You see, he too has fallen for a part of me. Not perhaps as cold as money, yet something strange. He’s fallen for my writer’s persona. That persona, I’ve attempted to explain to him, is a professional persona. It’s my business self.
“But, I love what you write, everything that you write; I love your blog, it’s inspiring; but more than all else, I love the bedtime stories you write for me,” he said last night. And then he continued, sounding like my editor, “And since you didn’t write me one yesterday, you’ve got to write me two tonight!”
But he wasn’t joking. He was dead-pan serious.
The Parisian wasn’t interested in sharing his physical affection with me. He didn’t want the emotional mess. What he did and continues to want are prurient stories which he can then fantasize with, fantasize about me, not the flesh and bone me, but some idyllic me, to masturbate to someone that doesn’t exist, all the while cordoning off true feelings and intimacy.
Maybe this is what courtship is like in the age of texts and Twitter.