Suicide Lovers

We’re not supposed to be here. I realize this quietly as we drive from here to there, and I try not to dwell on it too much. I try not to talk about it either, lest we backslide into another dialogue on why we don’t want to be here and how much we’d rather be gone and how we would do it. I can’t let myself slip back into thinking like that, lest I slip back into wanting to do something about it. Lest I slip back into doing something about it.

Every time something bad happens, he tells me, “Well, I didn’t die.” Which is supposed to make me feel better, but I know that those words carry a different kind of emotion: disappointment. Not gratitude. Disappointment. Which is starting to worry me, because falling short of death isn’t cause for a celebration. There are so many horrors that fall just short of death, and I don’t want him to endure those, either. But I don’t know what to say. I rarely know what to say.

I remind him that we don’t get to leave this place. We’ve tried so many times to get out, but we’re still here. He sighs in frustration when I suggest that maybe we should just make the best of it in the meantime. He doesn’t like that. He wants to leave. Now. But life isn’t letting him leave – and for this, I’m so grateful.

I’m glad he’s here. I try to tell him as often as possible, even though saying it out loud seems to only be a reminder of the fact that he’s still stuck here. I’m trying not to build resentments, so I try to think of a better way to say it. I can’t think of anything clever, but I can think about how devastated I would have been if he hadn’t made it this far. I wonder if he would have been devastated if I hadn’t made it this far either, but, then again, I’m trying not to dwell. I’m trying not to camp out inside of my morbid fantasies. If I become too comfortable here then…well. I’m not thinking about that right now.

I’m trying to have a good time while I’m here. Or at least make it look good. This life that I have very little interest in. This life definitely doesn’t feel sacred, despite what they say on the news. I look at all the other lives that have crossed paths with mine – all these decimated, decaying, faded lives. Why do they want to be here, and if they want to be here, why do they make it look so dull? If I have to be here, I’d like to be swathed in beauty. I want decadence. I want the best that life has to offer me. I deserve the best, and I don’t want to try at all – I think that having the best for free is a fair consolation prize for being forced to be here against my will. I’m not going to live a half life while I’m here.

I do not love life, but life loves me. I tell him, “Life loves you, too, baby. You don’t even have to love it back. All you have to do is love me.” He nods his head. I don’t know if he heard me, but we bury ourselves back in bed and booze. I am determined to win this game with minimal effort, and I hope he’ll win with me. Probably not today, because we’re not leaving the house, but perhaps tomorrow.

My Life Is Better Because You’re In It

I realized this the other day: my life is better because of a very small group of people who have influenced my life to be better. I wish I could type out that list and give credit where credit is due, but unfortunately I will never talk to some of those people ever again because fuck those people. Which makes me pretty sad – the mix of emotions, the split between gratitude and loathing, is confusing.

I guess falling outs are inevitable. They happen some time, and if I’m going to think about the positive impact that certain people have had on my life, I’ll take it. I can dwell on the negative later.

Although, the people that matter the most are still a part of my life today. So I’m going to take the time to tell them to their faces: my life is better because you’re in it. And I would like you to be here with me, always.

A Guide To Casually Black Listing People You Don’t Like

Actually, I can’t tell you the secrets to effortlessly and effectively black balling people you don’t like. I can’t snitch on myself like that. All I can really say is: power is a beautiful thing, but be careful how you wield it.

In other news, I was recently informed by someone I used to, uh, “be involved with” that he had stopped talking to me because he thought I was trynna set him up and rob him. The shock! The horror! Who? Lil’ ol’ me? Rob someone? I would never! I have no idea why he would think that of me. I’ve been nothing but gracious and courteous this entire time.

Along the same vein, I was walking home from the grocery store the other day when I noticed someone across the street and down the way who looked remarkably like a man that I used to, oh, how do I say this … “fuck.” I thought, “It’s either that dude I used to fuck, or it’s someone who looks like that dude I used to fuck, and, eh, I have a type, so might as well scope it out and do a casual walk by flirtation.” I thought if it’s him, well, maybe we can say, “Hi” and that will be cool. Just some simple, cordial acknowledgement.

As I walked closer, I realized, yes, it’s that dude I used to fuck, definitely. But as I neared the restaurant he was standing outside of, poof, into the restaurant he went. Which means, perhaps…did he run away from me?! Huh. That’s weird.

Whatever. People I used to fuck but no longer talk to can do whatever they want. I’m having a great time without them, so who cares.

Happy Pride Month

In an effort to not be another problematic straight, I thought about all the great ways in which queer culture has richly enhanced my life. The list is pretty long, but the first four things that come to mind are 1) wow, I would dress like shit if it weren’t for the LGBTQ crowd. Yes, I recently watched Pose, and, goddamn! Talk about a constant reminder that I will never, ever be that fashionable, which is fine, because there are certain times in life when the pupil must admit that they will never out do the master, and fashion is definitely one of those arenas.¬†Thank you for your never ending effort to make the world a more fashionable place. 2) Would Catholic art even exist without gay people? What would my parents hang on the walls of their home if not for gay artists? Yes, the hypocrisy runs deep on this one, but would the straights have done anything innovative and beautiful with Catholic art if left up to their own devices? and 3) we all know that straight women aren’t the ones writing cheeky blog posts about how to take it up the ass, and, also, I have a sneaking suspicion that straight women didn’t pioneer teaching other straight women on things like how to ask for oral sex, how to receive oral sex, and how to masturbate. I’m a straight person, and I’m pretty sure my sex life would be boring as fuck if it weren’t for gay people. 4) Feminism.

In conclusion: thank you, LGBTQ community, for those four things, and all the other things that I haven’t listed here. The world would suck without you, my life would be so boring without you, and I’m sorry that people have been mean to you. I love having you here! I couldn’t imagine what my life would have been like if I hadn’t grown up five miles away from the epicenter of gay culture, but I’m definitely a better straight person because of it. I can never repay you.

Throwback Blow Back

I was meandering around Downtown Oakland, as I tend to do, when I walked into a cafe that I used to frequent between the ages of 17 – 24. I hadn’t been in there in years, mostly because gentrification really does ruin a lot of beautiful things, and I hadn’t seen anyone fuckable in there for quite some time. Which isn’t necessarily a dig against that place – it’s more a testament to my ever evolving taste in men. Turns out I’m not into the post-gentro artsy type anymore. (Actually, I don’t think I was ever into that type, but back when I had a ‘kid in a candy store’ approach towards sexuality, I’ll admit that I tried one of everything.)

When I walked in, I immediately ran into this guy who works there that I used to fuck seven years ago. Surprise, surprise. I don’t even mean that sarcastically – I guess if I had ever thought about him or where to find him, I wouldn’t have guessed that he’s still working at the same cafe as he was back when I fucked him all those years ago.

The encounter was a wee bit awkward, mostly because I’m such a god damn awkward mess sometimes. I was there on a professional pretenses, and getting slapped in the face with a healthy dose of “oh, yeah, I used to be such a raging slut over here all those years ago” unexpectedly knocked me off my game.

We engaged in the standard banter that is afforded people who used to fuck years ago, don’t care about each other whatsoever, but have run into each other under friendly and professional circumstances. I tried to push down the first thought that popped into my head, which was: “God, I’m glad I didn’t waste too much time fucking him or thinking I was interested in him.” I was suuuuper drunk when I fucked that dude. LOL. However, as soon as I pushed that thought down, another one popped up: “I’ve gotten better with age and he hasn’t.” Yeesh. Do I know no modesty? Apparently not. There were absolutely zero nice thoughts coursing through my head as we danced the dance of being nice to each other without any vested interest. As in, I’m ashamed of how much of an asshole I can be. Oh, no, wait – no I’m not. I utterly embrace my assholeishness, which is why I walk around in Miu Miu heels with my Louis Vuitton purse: for moments like this, when I run into someone I used to know who has probably cemented me in his mind as some slut he used to fuck. It’s because I need people like this to know that, yes, I’m that slut you used to fuck, and I’m doing pretty fucking good in life. Why did God make me like this? Oh, wait, I don’t believe in God, so that’s a moot question.

Although, as much as I can be a narcissistic, condescending little shit, I’ll admit it: there’s still a part of me that has no self respect because you know what I started thinking next? “I bet he’d give anything to fuck me again.” Like, omigod, come on! First of all, I am a grade A pervert. I’m supposed to be working not rewinding through old sex scenes and imposing new ones into the future. Second of all – well, anyone who knows anything basic about psychology knows that thinking “I bet he’d give anything to fuck me again” actually translates into “I hope he wants to fuck me again.” Not that I’d actually fuck him, but for some reason my ego needed a dose of feeling like the same man eater I used to be all those years ago, like every man wants me and I’m still qualified to play my favorite sport: sexually rejecting men. I need him to want to fuck me still because ya girl is fragile as fuck. This despite the fact that the person I fuck regularly these days is way, way hotter than this guy. Like my narcissism knows no bounds.

Anyways, that’s what went through my head over the course of about forty five seconds before I returned to the task at hand. I wonder if he thinks I’m a different person, all done up and being professional and looking like I make money. I mean, that’s what I want him to think. Or does he still think of me as some little slut. Who knows. I’ll never find out because I’ll probably never talk to him again, unless, of course, I see the opportunity to make money off him.

Narcissist Parties

I had put on my new pair of Miu Miu shoes and felt like being cruel while looking pretty, so I went to the bar before heading out to a friend’s birthday party. I used to do this every weekend: get really dressed up and act like a bitch in public just for kicks. I don’t do it so much anymore – I’m less of a lion and more of a domesticated house cat these days. Which is fine, but every once in a while I get the urge.

I used to do this all the time, so it should feel natural for me. As I sat there in all my refinement, done up in furs and rhinestones. I looked around the bar and realized: there’s no one here that I want to fuck. Or even flirt with. I think it has something to do with my newly bolstered self esteem – *somebody* out there has been hammering it into my head that I should only be fucking 9s and 10s, and he’s right. I should only be fucking 9s and 10s. I’m too hot for anything less than a 7. But the problem with that is: god, I’m so fucking lazy. Where do the 9s and 10s hang out at these days? I’ve been getting slurry drunk in Oakland, and, let me tell you, it is slim pickings out there.

I was ready to leave the bar. There was nothing for me there. So we cabbed it over to our friend’s birthday party in West Oakland. As we wound our way through the Lower Bottoms, a pang of nostalgia filled the bottom of my stomach. You know, those memories of back in the day when I was a real scum bag, biking around in thrift store prom dresses with a pint of Ancient Age in my back pocket. Man, those were the days. Back when I used to get fucking wasted til 5am on a regular basis. There’s something about the alcoholic hue of those memories that always makes me think that everyone there was more beautiful than perhaps they actually were.

As we walked into the party at the respectable hour of 10pm, I wondered, is this going to be like back in the day? When everyone looked good and I wanted to fuck them all? Is this where my 9 or 10 has been hiding?

After being there for thirty minutes, I realized: no. No, this is not where my 9 or 10 has been hiding. In fact, all I see are 7s and below. (For the men, at least. The women are always beautiful.) Fuck! What a waste of my time. Sure, I like hanging out with my friends, but here I am, in Miu Miu shoes and fox fur, drinking wine from a coffee cup while standing in a back yard in West Oakland. Seriously? Am I still doing this? This was fun five years ago, but now I’m starting to realize that everyone here is five years older than they used to be but they don’t seem to know it quite yet. Fuck. This isn’t my scene. This isn’t my crowd. These aren’t my people. Sure, maybe they used to be my people, but…I think I may have outgrown this. It’s time for me to go…where? Another bar? Back home? Out of the Bay Area entirely? What the fuck am I even doing with my life?

I used to tell myself that the reason I fucked 6s, 7s and 8s was because there weren’t very many 9s and 10s out there if you like fucking straight cis men. Women are so much more attractive than men so of course the attractive level-coupling is skewed so that more attractive women fuck less attractive men. But, you know what? Fuck that. I’m over it. Sex isn’t in short supply. I’m not going to starve if I pass on the 6s, 7s and 8s of the world.

Or, at least, that’s what I tell myself as I quietly ignore the fact that I might have hit my wall of discontent here in the Bay Area. But more on that later.

Through the Eyes of a Lover

I want him to see all of me and still think I’m beautiful. All the flaws, all the scars, all the twinkles and smiles. I want him to see me for years, over time, changing, and always getting better, but never having been lesser in the past because of it.

I want to be unforgettable. I want him to see me at my best, even when I am at my worst, and when I am at my worst, I want him to remind me of the best that I can be. I want him to see the beauty in me even when I cannot. I want him to see the beauty I could be, not because I am not beautiful enough – I am already the most beautiful to him –¬† but because he knows the world is mine and he wants me to have it, here, with him.

I want to always see myself the way that he sees me because if I can do that, I will be a better person for it. But I can’t, which is fine, because I love him, too, and I see him for who he really is, resplendent in both darkness and light, and I am a better person for seeing that in him, too.