<a name="#fifty three">
Enough </a>
It's enough to to be here,
temporarily enshrined in the upper room of the fabulous all-in-one
store, cafe, and coffee refinery.
The aroma of roasted beans
drew me from blocks away, the scent
like silk scarves floating on the afternoon breeze
threading through the emptiness in my tongue and stomach.
This morning, first light, in another neighborhood,
far from here, a different shop entirely
greeted me, dark, dank, infused with earthy character.
After the chocolaty java breakfast
I walked for a time with punks,
dreadlocks, pink-and-purple hair dye,
nose rings, and plaid pants with army boots.
Tonight I'm going back downtown
dressed to the nines, to the neon upscale
to take in some quality entertainment.
From gallery to park to sculpture garden,
wandering along the way,
humidity and tree-smells, cool,
all of it pulls me and slides it's way into (my) memory/place.
Tomorrow, I'll screw up my courage
and sneak my unblending self
into a crowd of bohemians
to watch the living breathing landscape
of lowbrow craziness, take in the two-hour fill
and slink away, hopefully unnoticed and unbothered.
I'm alone, and miss my kids.
I'm alone, finally, first time in months,
far from home, in the land of the thirty-mile city
crowded and crowned with towers.
I like to stand at their feet,
staring straight up and feeling small.
Where will tomorrow find me?
Surburbia? I think not, unless
just to drive the streets to make them mine.
Maybe in another 48 hours, every one of them counted,
when it's time to pack up,
I'll have grown bored with the emporiums
full of candles and incense, antiques and silver jewelry
and the very otherness of the whole experience
will have lost its appeal.
There's a strange fire inside that keeps me going,
walking, wide awake, without hunger.
My own art would look great here,
could feasibly adorn a number of these businesses.
As for the coffee bars and cabarets,
I can see myself on their open mikes
stirring anger into counsel
in a controlled rant and a muted scream.
It's why I am here now,
just to breathe in the pollution, the heartbeat;
why just being here is enough,
even though it's not.
PamEhli/2002
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Stories
<a name="#fifty four">
December Burial </a>
I was trying to write, but there was no flow to it anymore. It all came in fits and spurts, like something bigger was there, holding back, blocking my fledgling attempts. Again and again, always restarting, then deleting.
"Well, let's see. Yes, I am thoughtful. Loyal. Devoted. I can be, when I want to be. (Like a pet dog?)..."
"A date with the Fates
The Fates on a date
That's some chaperone
When you know you'll get your own...
...Karma: Real. Hardcore. Fate.
Payback. What comes around, goes around."
The unwanted attention thing. "Strange and weird," stuck in my brain for months now. I've always been strange and weird. Never considered it bad. Just, intense.
I had to get this over with, or it'd just never go away. Over the course of two days, my innermost pain spilled over onto the paper of my black writing tablet, faster and faster. Then, when I was finally done regurgitating, there came the process of editing, not so different than eating the products of it all over again, reforming into something passable as literature, maybe...
**************************************************
I'm gonna say at least two things at once now, so bear with me:
Last night my friend of three years, Billy, came over. I knew what he was going to say, had been putting him off for a week and a half. First of all, he's always said he was bi-sexual: the ultimate in non-commitment--can't even settle on a sexual orientation. He's too swishy for me, and it was previously always been very non-threatening, butting heads with him with no attraction thing going on. His parents are a couple of tree-hugging peace freaks (not an insult, that) which makes his upbringing way different from mine; but in some ways we're the same, like the the intellectual one-upmanship, and the interest in psychology and spirituality even though I'm a cynic and say I killed my spirit when I quit believing in God, temporary though that was.
Anyway, a couple weekends ago we went out dancing, and it wasn't even a date; I had invited him at the last minute to go to the bar with me and Barb. All very laid-back. Yes, I can still dance and throw my hair. Next day, it starts. Calling, three, four times a day [the emails, sometimes twice a week]. "Can I come over, can I come over?" [Oh by the way, I just drove 400 miles to throw myself at you]. The suggestive comments, the insinuations [...] OH. MY. GOD. This is NOT what I had in mind. Can't you dance with someone without them losing it entirely [I'm not saying a damn thing]? All of a sudden he's "98% hetero." Flannel shirts. Crocodile Dundee hat. I'm surprised he didn't turn in the Honda for a 4x4. Oh, MANLY! I don't get it. What the hell did I do? [I know what I did.] So he comes over, we get properly roasty-toasty on Bailey's. Dance around the subject for two hours. Finally it's inevitable; we must have "the talk:" Are you seeing someone (heaven forbid anyone gets to use that excuse)? How long has it been, were you ever with ... after you broke up, can I offer you my services as a boyfriend? OY!
Sitting between the table, the wall, and the kitchen counter, I can't back up any further, I feel queasy, and not from the Irish creme, but I had to let him say it and get it out of his system. So I am thinking...maybe I could just take him to bed, and do the, "See ya later," as in 'never,' thing. Can't. That's just mean. Or go out with him but skip the physical stuff. Not this day in age. I don't want him to touch me; I have to keep walking around him when he gets too close. It's like, "EEEEUUUGH!" Would be like having a "relationship" with my brother, if I had one. I feel sorry for him, wish I could help him out. Just can't do it. His parting shot, not a bitter thing, wanting me to see the obvious (in his opinion): "You know, he's probably had a LOT of women." One of those meaningfully pointed-type looks follows. If only he knew...
Are you getting this? It took me till this far into the first draft to realize I was writing a letter. Well, I got mine, let me tell you. Probably our (i.e. mine & Billy's) friendship is ruined now, but I can't bring myself to care that much, although I'm exceedingly grateful for the "object lesson." The first time he called where I heard THAT tone of voice and knew what he was about now, it was like, yup, the bomb finally fell. Fate. Karma. Goes around/comes around.
**************************************************
Look, I know it's crazy and makes no sense at all. It feels how it feels and it feels good to me. I'm so used to attracting co-dependents that have to be 'saved' and being attracted to people who don't want me...what other way is there?
I know I could change your mind. Its been done before, with other people; then I'd probably discover whatever it is you're hiding and kick myself. For months now I've been ready to drop everything including my kids my house my job just to be near you, and wouldn't that make you want to run out and get a restraining order? I can become a boho, drop weight, take acting classes, whatever. I can. Isn't it all so ridiculous? Absolutely. I'd rather just be who I am and have that be good enough. I live with it, after all. I'd ask nothing of you, other than let me be around, and probably the return would be more of the same (nothing.) Life should be a celebration and that's how I feel about you. Don't wanna let go and let it be done but it is. Pity.
**************************************************
Somehow, they're precious, these little tentacles pried from my psyche, one by one. Tossed to the ground, into the snow dusting the dead dry grass, they quiver and try to die. The old stuff first; it's already fuzzed over and skewed by the intrusive years.
The first time I ever saw you, coming out of the doorway/break room stairs into the back kitchen at C.H. I think you had on one of those silly white paper hats, and an apron over dark blue jeans and a white tee shirt. We thought you were stoned. You had a short ponytail but your sides were hanging because they didn't reach the rubber band. My first impressions were "Not from here," and the ever-popular "Nice ass."
I was inexplicably drawn to the dishroom to talk to you. A couple times on my days off I found you walking and gave you rides home. The on-site homophobes thought you were gay and had snickered behind their hands at first, but pretty soon everyone was so impressed with you no one cared anymore, either way. At Lillie's party, I chased you into the kitchen. We stood in front of the open fridge door and fished for beer.
So, the aforementioned girls night out. You were standing a little ways down from the big silver sink and you looked me in the eye when I asked you and said "yes." The Rush, Nite Lites at the Holiday Inn, the Irish pub downtown. Liam didn't like me much. I didn't appreciate him either, till that one night at his house. But that was later.
The first time seeing you after the first time... Wearing a watch, counting off the seconds till 4:00. Pacing. Jumping up and down. I was over by the lemonade machine when you came walking around the bus cart. Can't even imagine the expression I must have had but it was probably transparent. I remember yours. Molten. Grinding. Feral. Like it had been. Like the feelings in my guts. I would have done you right there. I wanted to fall into your eyes and your soul and drown. Probably the remark I later made (the best I could do; how inadequate) had been something to the effect of coming down my leg. Damn near, damn near. Three other waitresses were in our line of sight and they saw it, felt it, something. Drug me out to the parking lot and demanded to know what was up. All I could come up with was, "Oh, holy shit!" Well, we all knew what that meant. They also sympathized with my dilemma, were my friends, after all.
God, I was cruel to you. We'd been together; you wanted to hold my hand; I said, "I'm sorry I can't, I'm in love with someone else." Now I'm REALLY sorry. I wanted you to save me, to say, "Well so what? Here I am." You were like my escape mechanism and how could you be, really, a 21-year-old college student with big dreams? How could I even have expected such a thing?
Didn't take long for me to come back around. In your room. You said, "I can't, my grandma's out there." I made sympathetic noises and slid my hand down your pants.
One time, or maybe many times, we were laying there sweaty and exhausted, the papery curtains in your light blue room floated around and stuck to my face. I tried to blow them away and you laughed. I wrote some little thing about us, about how I felt. You said, "Shut my mouth." I took that as a compliment.
Sitting in Perkins. Day. Night. Swilling coffee. Reading my black and white tirades to you. Took you to church. One time we tried to go jogging. Your hair, flying around everywhere. My car was towed, parked in front of a dumpster a block from your house. you wouldn't go get it with me. why?
End of summer. I couldn't bear to say goodbye to you. Not in front of your parents and Liam. Figured they wouldn't want me there, anyway. Our last time out, you walked home, insisted. Had to be close to 4:00am. The next morning I woke up earlier than I had in weeks; it was partly cloudy, orangy-purple sky. I imagined you and Liam putting your last few things in his car, saying your goodbyes, driving west on the Interstate. Would you have looked for me that morning? I didn't know. Couldn't say if I was that important or not. Figured it was for the best not to force the issue; that you'd be back in your element; I'd repent, bury it all, over and done. I never did admit to it, by the way.
******************************************************
1 Year
I'm wearing white but it's tight leather and I look like a whore. I've plastered my face all over town in obvious places and waved my teeny tiny little rock chip in your face trying to get your attention. "Help me, Save me!" That again. To no avail. I didn't blame you. Once you'd commented, "He doesn't treat you very nice, does he?" Not really. Had I cried? Should've been enough to set me off, touchy as I was back then. I couldn't remember. Since then, much. Why didn't I just go to California with you? Couldn't imagine trying to survive there. I burned my diary, put on another white dress, clung to my white guitar, and hoped for the best.
2-1/2 Years
A hundred miles from nowhere, going over 100 miles per hour over icy roads, slowing only when the trailer behind starts to fishtail. Trucks nearly run us off the road, and I'm so damn scared. I guess that means I'm not ready to die, and go back to nursing my firstborn. Heavy metal booms for hours and hours, thumping and screaming, and I find myself thinking of you and Jesus Jones. I can't believe it, this fucking mess. Now its shouting matches with contractors, getting stiffed, bouncing checks, and vagrancy. The adventure of it soured very quickly. Couldn't even save myself.
Almost 3 Years
My parent's couch, where I, husband, and son are squatters for 3-1/2 months following another round of judgment, court, and having all our money seized for back child support. It doesn't bear thinking about. At this late date, the legalities make perfect sense. I learn to pleasure myself, out of necessity. It's become obvious I'm never going to get the kind I need again. You are there, perfectly. I wonder if you've done it without a rubber yet, if you've found your mate, if you have any offspring. I'm thinking of leaving but am pregnant again. By now I'm in love with my children, including the unborn one and even the ones that aren't mine, not to mention the "perfect little family" illusion. We move for the umpteenth time and this time I bring you with me, feeling defensive and guilty about it, but I won't tell. I'm desperate to see you, feel you, to finally spill my guts and TALK to you. And get out. Of course, I can't, or so I'm lead to believe. It had always seemed you liked my personality, wouldn't want to kill it. My life, metaphorically speaking, was a foot in a trap, clipped wings, always the slamming cage door. You were freedom. The symbolism aspect was never considered, or separation of feelings from fact. I had to be underground and subversive for months, years, to keep my identity. In the winter we moved to the farm, it had only begun, the worst of it. I lay in my bed, age 24, cold, with a new life inside me, knowing it couldn't last long, this monster (not the baby, the situation) I had created. .
4, 5, 6 Years
It's spring, I'm painting. "Water," first. Wash away this mess. "Battle of Wills." Spent so much time on that, loving it. Weeping over the beauty of it, of us at that time. Blue for you and green for me, together yet separate; and me strung up for target practice, how very now. Fall--"A Walk in the Rain." One blessed evening. More than a year later, again, "Birthday Bouquet." Four years since I'd seen you last. We will be 27 soon within a week of each other. I wanted to send you real flowers, but what would you have thought? I knew you were in (deleted) but didn't dare.
It'd all slip into my subconscious for months at a time. Every so often I'd dream about you and it's get me thinking, but it would be necessary to shove it back down, over and over. I had to. Really, would it have been better if I'd succeeded in forgetting permanently? Or, who is to know? I took this path and am forced to see it through. Just how, back in the years I've just whipped through, I threw myself into what I'd chosen then and in all honesty tried like hell, secrets or not, to make it work. So I always wound up bawling in some chair, cross-legged, getting stood over and screamed at for my imperfections. So what? We all have our own hell to pay. Then and now.
So anyway, the dreams: Always about trying to find you. You'd be one step ahead or one step behind, and I'd search for clues, make phone calls and drive all over cities trying to make contact. Sometimes I did, in a 1930's house with yellow walls, on the driveway of a big stained-wood condo on a hill, in some little hole in the wall theater. Sometimes Liam or other people were with you. Once with a girl, your state of mind mirrored mine and you were the trapped one. I guess the one about you running away screaming that I told you about was the most accurate...
8 Years
One day on my way to the library 'Unbelieveable' by EMF was playing on the radio. You know. Not like I hadn't heard it dozens of times. That particular day, I resolved to learn how to surf, really search, the Web. And I did. You in a bathtub, you in a line-up with a bunch of other long-hairs, quotes from a couple years previous when you'd tried to run your own business. Fire, adrenaline, high; I ran to the phone. "Hello, you have reached the home of Ian and Tony..." Is that Anthony or Antoinette? And which would be worse? Couldn't say a damn thing.
10...
I've been working on my "issues" for four years now. From all sources that matter, I've gotten satisfactory feedback as of late; I'm progressing. Now I own my own house, am out of debt, mostly, and am running my own show, no longer held down by anyone; writing again, even about positive things at times. I want desperately to prove I'm a grown-up. Why? Who even knows why? Another day in the library, I find your yahoo address, next to a goofy picture. I run from the Websurf computer to the email service computer; any minute now I'll think of what to lead into this with. I type in, "Ten Years Later...?"
The next week at work: I'm not supposed to be online at work; I hit the forbidden "AUXWORK" button and scan this communique at least three times. I can't believe it. I am happy. And wired.
The "strange and weird" email comes and goes. I ignore that, and apologize for my past misdeeds.
Walking to into the darkened theater that Friday night, I have no idea what to expect. At first it's hard to discern which one's you. Barb is whispering, "Which one?" over and over. Since you're all dressed the same and you're all dark-haired, she'll just have to wait. It's the guy with the most talent, obviously; the one who sang the toe-sucking song; the one who made us laugh so hard we nearly peed when he came out in the tutu, antlers, and elephant trunk; the bleep, bleep, bleep-ing rapper, Mr. O, who made his bleep-ing point bleep-ingly. Duh! Him! You stand on corner of the stage, giggling through the improv set, maybe scanning for me. Twice you look right at me but I doubt you can see me because of the lights. Wow; you're almost famous!
What she had to say later was that she'd never seen anyone that scared. She meant both of us. Of course, Barb relates to everyone in terms of fear. And she was exaggerating. Apparently it was a draw as to who was going to pass out first, and she throught it was dead funny to watch us. I was positively scowling in terror; you had this blank expression, I think (retrospectively) trying very hard not to be disappointed. Um, hi, uh, well...the articulate wonders. We wanted to take you out right then and there, but your gaggle of actor friends surrounded you like armor and bore you off into the night. I watched you go, unnerved, wondering.
Sunday. I've already described it; to do it again would be overkill. My curiosity over you finally got to stare you in the face. You are luminous. You are real, still alive and breathing here on this earth. A miracle, for one day anyway, on 28th. OH JOY!
Oh, fuck. Hold it together, girl, for God's sake. You are an adult. Act like it!
I paint, copying myself, waiting. Some more, "Blood and Fire," for by now I know and refuse to believe. The naked girl, offering up my true spirit for yours, and I pick up oil pastels because they're faster; pens--faster yet. Drawing and creating the fucking let-down and the land-slide to the bottom. All your colleagues. You as the Devil. Worse. Finally I realize how stupid and juvenile this is and understand that it's fucked up and flipped around from when I wouldn't allow myself an honest reaction a decade ago. My feet have been kicked out from under my world, for no good reason at all. Mind is cool, logic; heart is pain; soul is dead, and quite simply I know better. I decide to let go of you because I can always catch up to you in the afterlife and write about that too, but it doesn't help. On my last appearance I can't even talk to you because I realize how I've so objectified you and am horrified. I want real Real REAL. Like what I though I saw back in June. Now you won't say anything; you obviously don't trust me. I haven't the time for anything but a running internal diatribe with myself to SHUT UP! I go when you say go, dying at not being wanted because I want so much to pick and and love you, and be loved by you, like King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba; fire and fuel; salt and pepper; actor, artist. Or actor, audience. Whatever. But all my FEELINGS mean nothing with no power to act and nothing from you. I don't know why, just that it is, and there's nothing I can do.
You're still compact and sturdy, quick-witted and charming. You've grown a beard recently; it's very genteel. You've a few gray hairs, which I'm sure you're aware of. In the last few months, I've been online a lot, looking for something, I don't know what. Trying to find out in all the comedy and acting websites what it is that makes you tick. There's more to you than that, one can tell just by observing, but again I don't know what. There are pictures of festivals and performances, reviews, interviews, not often of you, but lots on others you must know or know of. It all looks like they're exalting, jubilating, in a way. Even when sardonic and sarcastic, it's a praise occasion. Because of life, living; we're still here and even when it sucks there's something to be said for living it up. I seemed to have lost that mentality in the short supply of the sands of time in our mutual/separate meantimes. If it comes down to either make fun of it or die, well, ah, comedy.
"Get it, got it, good." Been saying that, was hoping it'd be spelled out for me, but that's of no import any longer...took care of that myself. The preceding was a (long, windy) funeral literary; thank you god for life and the will to live. See you in the next, truly, all three of us.
Originally posted at: December Burial
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<a name="#fifty five">
No Pants Valentine </a>
We shouted and hooted. We stamped. We twenty-some rowdy girls were all deadlocked on bidding for the guy up on stage. A model or a stripper he was not, just a comedian. So what was the deal? Who the hell knew? Who the hell cared? We didn't even know where the money was going. To their struggling theatre company? The individual actors? The inhibitions and the desire to ask intelligent questions were lowered. Whether it was the performance itself, full of double-entendre and compromising positions with a central theme of pants-less-ness, or the beer we were blatantly encouraged to indulge in even while the cast was doing the same on stage, whatever it was that had gotten into us was in full "schwing."
Every woman in the room was honed in on the neat-and-proper-looking specimen on the boards. He was the last of the lot, and probably the most likely. Those of us still in the running were all riled up. He was starting to look DAMN GOOD, ala house idol Richard Roundtree. I was beginning to think I wouldn't mind some L.D. Whoever was willing to part with the most green was taking him home. The overly bleached and made-up skinny twit next to me, digging me with her sharp little elbow as she held her platinum card aloft, was not going to be the one. Not if I could help it.
Tonight I'd come out just to watch, the 'fly on the wall' mentality firmly in place. As familiar as I was with this team, knowing hilarity was always a sure thing with them, they'd outdone themselves this time. In honor, or maybe in horror, of Valentine's Day, they had twisted the subjects of love and romance into a deliciously drawn-out but energetic montage of increasing degrees of sexual tension, just like their promo's had promised: everything from kissing cousins to gender-bending to being walked in on. Toys. Animal-ass-fucking carnies. The requisite nods toward the kinky shit. And good ol' fashioned marriage, as portrayed by a real-life married couple within the group, for those of us still conscious with delicate sensitivities. Not that any of us did, or we wouldn't have been there in the first place. After that performance, anything with enough life to have a pulse was both in pain from laughing so hard, and just plain horny.
The next item on the agenda was billed as a "Man-auction." What was up for sale was a "Real live date," whatever that meant. The crowd of women who'd been virtually bullied to stand under the footlights as the actors had shown off their somewhat dubious wares had at first been hesitant and polite in their vying for buying. Maybe it was the tendency toward stark white skin, skinny legs, or male pattern baldness that had put us off. That no longer mattered. Now it was more like a mosh pit. You could almost hear the snarling and yowling, too. Oh, yes, the fur was flying. After the first eligible bachelor, who resembled a cross between a Kewpie doll and a high school gym teacher, went for $195, some of the gals were unnerved and dropped back. Most of us pressed on in our quest to buy us a MAN.
Guy #2 was a tall well-built blond, reminiscent of one of my summer adventures in a past life. In memory, I bid the bimbo on my left all the way up to $202 amidst much screaming and cheering, till finally we were both thwarted. A pudgy little girl of about nineteen with cheeks the same flaming red as her hair topped my last mark by $20 and I let her have it/him. I just hoped the money would be put to good use.
It would have been difficult to describe #3; you'd have to see it to believe it. I'll just say that between his hang-dog expression and the residual sympathy he'd built up during the show at being dumped, jilted, left with a perennial case of blueballs and then being mistaken for a goat, somehow he commanded $327. It was getting desperate in there as the women smelled pheromone-scented paydirt.
Up to a point it had been easy to get caught up in the frenzy of the show and the not-quite slave auction in front of us. When Guy #4 reappeared, I knew I'd have to be careful or there'd be no satisfaction for me, in any sense of the word. Before anyone else could get the jump, I, who'd supposedly been planning only to observe all night, yet was somehow packing more cash than I normally did over the course of a year, yelled, "Twenty bucks!" and flailed Ben Franklin over my head. Starting so low after the last round had escalated as it had was almost an insult, earning me a glare from the owner of the pair of blue-black eyes being paraded across the stage. I glared right back. It had been deliberate, as much to discourage so much 'inflation' as anything.
The broad next to me scoffed, "Fifty," and the race was on. In the next two minutes the bid had gone up five times in ten dollar increments. After a pause and a "going once," I pushed it to $150. It seemed that an electric current surged through the crowd of women around me. In two more nods it was $200. I'd fully expected the last man would go for the most. This time instead of two-to-five dollar raises at a time, we were looking at some serious cash. The little thorn in my side squealed "Two fifty," and got muttered "Bitch," at under my breath as I raised her another ten. The dark-haired piece of work above me was starting to look even better, but that was partly due to the desire to win. And the booze.
There was another delay, another "going once," and then a woman with a long blond braid kicked it up to $300. The room drew it's collective breath and let it out again when my unwanted sidekick sang out, "Three twenty-five!" By the way she was dressed I could tell she had money and she was getting off on making each bid an announcement of it. Upping her again, "Three fifty," came from the blond woman. Then seconds ticked by and I blurted, "Three sixty." I had my own set of reasons.
The chick to my side said, "cunt," louder than was strictly necessary and turned to face me. She was so serious about besting that me it was funny, or would have been if my intent wasn't so similar towards her. Every eye in the place turned back and forth between us as we traded bids like insults, five dollars at a time, just to piss each other off. It was out of control and we both knew it, but neither of us would back down. The guy we were trying to "purchase" looked decidedly uncomfortable by the time we settled on $400.
I'd had enough; I yelled, "Five hundred!" That's when she whipped out the aforementioned plastic. I was already sweating from the adrenaline rush and the press of equally hyper people around me. This didn't help matters. Her little act of yuppie-dom really hacked me off. For all I knew she had a $100K limit on that thing, and I'd already maxed out my cash advance for the day. The auctioneer had to go confer with someone; I could hardly breathe. However, I did manage to lock eyes with the guy up for sale and give him one of my famous shit-eating grins. He smirked evilly, in a vaguely insulting way, like we were all idiots.
There's nothing like a challenge to give my ambition a kick in the ass. Looking away, a new or revised plan started to come together in my mind. We all fidgeted, waiting. Finally the ringmaster came back with the pronouncement, "No checks, no credit cards, cash only." My tarty little friend swore a blue streak and flounced off somewhere while I pushed my way to the edge of the stage and thumped five hundreds down on it.
Amid more screaming and clapping, the girl running the show stuffed them into her bra along with the rest of the proceeds she'd already collected, and shoved her colleague off the platform so hard he fell right into me. He was barely taller than me and he smelled kind of rank from all his earlier contortions under hot lights. As mentioned, when he wasn't yelling, chugging some form of alcohol, or openly leering at the dancers, he seemed really quite self-deprecating and quiet. I knew the type. Just get them alone and they'd either snot you off in some variety of superiority complex, or else charm the hell out of you for no other reason than their own personal amusement. Not too hard to figure out. He tried to keep a polite distance but I made him stand there beside me, half turned in. I cocked one knee out in his direction in an open invitation to hump my leg. Narrowing my eyes at him, I looked him up and down at close range, waiting for him to say something, but he didn't. So neither did I. Then my attentions were turned back to the stage.
Their lone female performer was now attempting to auction herself off, but so far she hadn't had any bites. It was hard to believe that in a city this size there weren't at least a few audience members who were 'out.' This was good for me, though, because I had $150 left to get me through the rest of the night and home. I turned to my newest acquisition and asked him, "Do you want her?"
He stared back in disbelief and tried to recover. "You read the ads, didn't you? 'For the ladies who like ladies...?'"
I wasn't having any of it. "OK, then, do you want US?"
It was interesting watching him turn that over in his mind, but I hope he'd hurry up and answer before some dyke got her first. Taking my line of sight elsewhere, I scanned the room to see if it looked like there were any takers. Hard to say.
By now our lady thespian was getting frustrated by the lack of response. Several people were whispering to each other, but no one had opened. My date-by-dollars gave me a significant look when I glanced back at him.
"Yes?" I prodded him.
"Yeah."
"Well, then, how much?"
"Oh, fifty..." The look which accompanied that suggestion spoke miles on what he had thought of my opening bid. Considering the outcome, it was laughable.
I called out the figure and blew the woman a kiss.
"Oh, SOMEONE wants more than her share!" she retorted mockingly.
"Well, why not?" I snapped loudly. She couldn't come up with a good answer. Some of the guys in the back were cat-calling.
"I hope you know what you're getting into, honey." I had a pretty good idea.
She yelled at the room at large, "Is that it? Fifty lousy bucks? Come on, I'm worth more than that! Talk about your reverse chauvinism. Somebody bid, here!"
A couple of male voices called, "Sixty."
"Seventy."
She laughed and flipped back her longish brown hair. "Sorry, guys, not you!"
"Eighty," I shot back in spite of myself. I was rewarded with something hard being pressed against the back of my thigh and an arm sliding around my waist for leverage. My insides flipped over and dropped three floors, and I sucked in my breath through my teeth.
"Very funny! And I SEE that," she barked, glaring down at us like the wrath of God, and then cracking up again.
"Oh, come on you people. You're a bunch of pussies!"
People were staring to shuffle their feet and their programs, and out of the corner of my eye I saw the director snap his fingers at her pointedly.
"Oh all right, fine. But I'm just as good as these guys, ladies!" was her parting shot.
The obligatory "going once, going twice."
"Sold to the girl up front with the really twisted sense of humor. You know, I kinda like that..."
So I handed my last hundred over to her and she fished down her front for the change. Soon enough I pocketed the twenty and she jumped four feet to the floor to stand at my other side. Obviously I knew her name, just like I had the guy's, but she was about as forthcoming as he was (not) introduction-wise.
The gentleman who had earlier proclaimed himself the Lord of the Pants ran back out in his boxers to wrap things up, congratulating us on our refined tastes and philanthropic endeavors to help starving artists. Yeah, whatever. All very tongue-in-cheek. Speaking of which, there was some commotion behind us which turned out to be Guy #3 and his buyer aggressively exchanging spit under the first row of seats.
My two new companions had seen it, too. They did the most amazing thing then. Right in front of my face, they leaned in towards each other and kissed. Before I was done gawking at them, with lips still touching they both kissed me, too. I looked into one blue eye and one brown. Fire raced up my insides and I didn't know who to give it back to first. Both. This was out of my realm of experience, but not so very far, and I was starting to get that vertigo feeling again.
Flashbulbs were going off. It occurred to me that this might just end up in someone's scrapbook, so I broke it off and flashed my car keys.
"Let's get out of here."
First, Ms. Thing had to empty her brassiere of all the moolah and they both had to take their final bows. I was almost surprised when they wandered back to me soon after. I'd thought the whole thing was just a tremendous hoax, AKA fund raiser, not to mention rather expensive joke. I had certainly exhibited just as much self-deceiving desperation and greedy lust as the next girl, which was what they had been poking fun at the whole time.
"Well," though I, in spite of it. "Maybe I'll be getting my money's worth..."
Originally posted at: No Pants Valentine
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<a name="#fifty six">
The Cities </a>
(NON-SEQUENCIAL)
THE CITIES (non-sequential)
My friend unfolded like a fragile flower, a special
and unique kind that can bloom more than once, even
after crushed and dead-looking. I drove around the block (or a dozen blocks) three times to pick her up,
past brick and vines, cement walls, a century-old
church with its front step on the sidewalk, down the
correct one-ways. And she was there, standing. Un-
assisted and self-supporting...A miracle. She survived, and how. I wished I'd gone--she said
everyone cried and I wished I could. Now here I am and
the beautiful dream is over, but both found some
healing.
God's laughing at us. Again. Blue sky is building
fuzz-balls today, shades of sapphire like we haven't
seen, a faded out baby blue; a cerulean I've only seen
in commercial acrylic paint; some other tone blazing
glory with a touch of lavender-purple. Its beyond
awesome. Thank you. Out of the rain, into the tornado
zone, into the "blue sky, nothin' but blue sky..." I
see bedding and she sees someone reclining in it. What
a comfort to know we are cared for, and have been
protectd through this whole thing. Two blinks--we're
home.
Stupid pig with an outrageous birthmark pulled me over
doing 73 in a 60. That was our 1st "trip experience."
Oh Goody. $34.00 down the toilet. The toilet...Time
for a potty break!!
I am standing in front of the mirror. I want to cut my
image in half. Can't do that. So I'm smearing black
kohl around my eyes. Perhaps that will make me
recognizable. My stomach is terrified and it is
protesting like hell. My brain is trying to get out fits cage, and I'm ready to let it. One thin silver
earring; the gypsy blood in me is rattling chains at
all my pulse points. Two earrings. Hands are steady;
constitution--HA. Button up the blue silk shirt, color
of the summer night sky, bought for today. It drapes
so nicely, so light it flares out whenever I walk. Can
still do that run-way strut, however it looks now.
Enough; it's enough; it's enough. Downstairs to
kitchen. Three more Tylenol followed by fridge water.
Black cloth mules with two inch styrofoam heels. Slap your feet. Toenails fingernails of early dimming
sunset. Get in the car.
This is me. Up there. I'm me, she's she, but I'm her.
That her skin is dark and mine is light doesn't
matter. So I can't sing. The program says she's
semi-famous, she has killer voice, and if she's dying,
then I'm dying. If she's in love, I'm in love. Getting
saved, getting saved. Ready to seek church, but the
song's over. You Go Girl is cliche'd from overuse, but
I'm sayin' it anyway. See that? That's me, up there.
Who else feels the same? Show of hands? Yeah.
My feet are KILLING me. Or it's this damned blister on
my ankle bone. I'm played out and we gotta walk
another mile. My new/old chime in one hand, my blasted
sandals swinging from the other, barefoot I walk. Not
gracefully, not lightly, but one before the other,
through the leftover puddles curtesy of one sudden
downpour-slash-hailstorm; then again over rougher
gravel embedded in asphalt. Mist flowing in our faces,
we three walk, not quickly, not especially
purposefully; following the invisible links to the
familiar, back to where we started, to where our
parking meter is three hours expired. Oh well, another
day, another ticket. Two for two. We've been ignored;
we've been futzed over and given the hard sell; we've
been hungry to the point of insanity. Bend over,
waitress-from-hell! It's been a good day. Being
trapped under a bridge by the hail brought is to a
poetry reading, of all things. My aunt Donzetta is
cackling, despite her headache (she's less of a baby
about it than I am about mine) and gelling with my
friend. Not surprised. The falls over the locks roar
and yell. I'd like to watch them for hours, but plod
on. Where's the next puddle? Aaaaaah. The washing of
feet.
Look up. Look down. Up, down. Again. You're doing it.
I'm doing it. Look at my hands. My face. My eyes start
to move. Quick--look away!
We are sitting, or sprawling, in huge leather chairs
in a white-and-oak great room, staring at the ceiling
twenty feet up, at the never-still ceiling fan midway
down, till our eyes pop out, or something. No, we're
laughing too heard, shaking and acting spastic like a
couple of wound-up high school chicks. I'm helpless,
this bubbling up and over for former tenseness grips
us, holds us down and tickles us. Periodically we come
up for air, clawing the surface with our gasped out
comments, like drowning women, only be be grabbed and
shoved down again under the weight of this humorous
hysteria. Laughing and chortling at each other, our
stupidity, and understanding; too soon time too get
up and semi-coherent again, before Eric thinks we're
truly insane. Maybe we are. Nah. Otherwise we'd be each
cracking up in our own little bubbles instead of a
dually-inhabited little sphere of existence, for the
last five minutes anyway.
Buzz. Buzzed. I am half-tanked or I would be chicken.
This morning at 9:00am I was scared shitless of
getting blown off. Same at 3:30, more acutely, on
site. I have pumped literally 10,000 mg's of Tylenol
into my body to stave off the migraine that's been
dogging me all weekend. We have business here, now, in
every way. We are looking into mirrors, walls, closets, and coffins; for questions and answers at the
same time. Locked, locked in time, into
something-else-entirely. If I go back, I'll probably
figure out you don't exist. Oh, just say it Pam, you
schmuck. It was now, it was then, it was hindsight and
struggle and desperation and just us. Still couldn't
keep our eyes shut--watching was the best part,
dark or not. "...SO good to see you again, have you
here..." Who else gets to jump in years later and
right at least one wrong? Even if in some small and
very primal way? I've finally figured out, with no
spector hanging over, that I can show you I'm just
who-I-am, and I don't NEED you, but if I want you
that's OK and it's no sin. Come forward, get out of
your eyes and under my skin here, now, in every way (I
am quoting myself).
I think I dreamed it. Home, in my own bed, dealing with
my children and a house that begs for bleach. It was
too much, too good, too perfect. But I'll carry it
till I'm dead.
Originally posted at: The Cities
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Chimera (warning: sex) </a>
***heinzs or whoever, if this is too over the top please delete it. i don't want to get kicked off. however, i've probably posted commentaries raunchier than this...
The main thing was how you kept looking at me & I knew, KNEW it was there with you too. You crushed me in your arms, rained kisses on my face, open to my overflow of heavily locked-down desire for you. Your earlobes & inner ears--candy for my tongue. My skills, ten years rusty, springing forth till I can't breathe. Your tongue is hot & probing on mine, then trailing down my neck & shoulders. I bite you; this is savage, & you don't slap me down. You are the one squirming & writhing & humping my leg, up on your balcony for the whole damn neighborhood to watch. Like you can't believe it, can't get enough, you chase me up a mountain that burns, or guide me with those small square hands that search out my skin & secret places. I'm not going to keep it in, panting, whining, begging for you, because it's got be your choice too. Somewhere soft music pulsates like our bodies throb for each other's, still pushing & shoving for clearance.
In the house, it doesn't stop there, now maybe slightly more restrained. You look down at me from a height advantage of one inch, which you're playing on. Stare at me long seconds, kiss me, spell me; your lips, now centered between laugh lines down your cheeks, so sweet, talking without words. It's dark but moonlit or maybe it's a streetlight & your eyes glitter while you smile at me, at me 'cause I'm here. I need to bruise you & leave my marks on you. We go at each other, pull back & stare, wonderingly, then start it all again. You hold your head slightly cocked so your eyes are off-kilter, the 'oh my God' look not leaving for one instant. Lead me on in this dance; there's enough power building that I'm content with that, for now. Buttons unbutton & summer-light clothing drifts away revealing our collective blue-white skin that in this light gleams like porcelain. You walk around me, re-acquainting our bodies which somehow still fit together, or you're so adept that it doesn't matter. In my face again, yours, saying how happy you are while your hands prove it. I feel clumsy, I want to drink you and suck you up into my mouth and swallow you & don't know what to do first. I crave you, your body, but my pleasure is just as much the head-trip. I talk, to you, to myself, affirming what I'm feeling: "It's magic."
You invite me to your room, advising me of the prophylactic treasures within & I laugh--I have come prepared too. I have to do this, glove you, & you let me. I apply it with no hands, but more than that press your flesh into the depths of my throat & squeeze, run my teeth up & down most carefully, feeling out the ridges, planes, arteries & veins.
You make a place beside you, my place, & gently beckon me to lie beside you now. For one millisecond. We roll toward each other and collide with the same intensity as the first instant you knew, I knew, KNEW. This time it's all naked skin & no other barrier except the one specified. Intense & grappling, breath meeting & surrounding us, my cries are flying out your window all over your street tonight. You wanted a ride, I'll be your ride, unfolding, guileless, thinking, "God, I haven't had sex in a year," then taking his name in vain, over & over, god, Jesus, lord Jesus Christ...!
Am I praying? Is this prayer? I think we're performing an exorcism, letting our ghost selves dissipate around us as we melt into each other. It's fucking raunchy, pushing you, open & spread & speared by you, the whole world centered on you & me, crazy on fire & banging our silly song with our names & God's as lyrics. You hunt me down, knowing what to do to me, & shove me till I am white-eyed & lolling, twitching. A warm fountain bubbles over & drenches me & it's too soon to be over, but of course its not. You stop, pause above me, watch me with something that looks like adoration.
Now it is your turn, our turn, my turn too; your striving for release is going to make me explode. It does, right after you as I dig my purple claws into your back, trying to stifle my shrieks. This time a wave pulls the knot in my lower belly loose & the unknotted rope up to my head & out my mouth. This must be what it's like to be a succubus, for the meaning of life to be fucking & coming & being everything & nothing but an erotic chimera.
Originally posted at: Chimera (warning: sex)
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<a name="#fifty eight">
Termination of... </a>
Warning: Could upset sensitive readers. This story contains verbal and psychological domestic violence, and references to abortion.
*************************************************
Part One
At age 20, I flushed a life and was nothing other than relieved. I didn't want to do the same to my own life, so the choice was made. The ache and cramps wore off in two or three days. Most women, or so I'd been told, go through massive amounts of grief over the loss of a child, even though they didn't want it, and all the "what if's." Not me. Not then.
Dad, in this case, was a year older than me, a bad-tempered former jock with a coke habit that ate up several hundred dollars a week. You can imagine how he financed it. He prized his black flare-sided short-box truck and his huge Rottweiler above all else. He already had two other kids, a son and a daughter, from different moms, both with that same white-blond hair, and he didn't pay any child support. These were things I didn't know till after I'd gotten myself knocked up. When he found out about me, he proposed. I was horrified at such a prospect and said, 'no way.' Then he wanted me to have the baby and let him raise it. I couldn't imagine. That last half year had been the loneliest in my life, which was how I'd gotten messed up with him in the first place. Having a kid by myself would only make it worse, plus I'd have to put up with playing the visiting dad game with him the rest of my life, and the same with Brian's haranguing, lying, and pretending to sic his dog on me.
And oh, the shame. In the religious background I'd been brought up in, these were some major no-no's I'd committed. Thou shalt not have sex outside of marriage. Thou shalt not kill. Thou shalt not bear false witness. On the first count I was guilty in the vernacular of not having used protection when committing the sin, as well. That was just plain stupidity, but I was loath to admit I was sexually active at all, even though he was my eighth, much less take responsibility for the outcome. What steps I did take resulted in the abortion I mentioned.
My roommate and best friend at the time agreed to accompany me. It was a six-hour one-way trip on the most boring stretch of road in the world, ahead of a blizzard, which even in South Dakota can be fierce if short-lived. I arrived at the clinic and was 'processed,' then my credit card was promptly rejected. I had to charge less of the total ($350) and spend more cash. At least I had it, no thanks to Brian. The place was pleasant and homey, the staff very professional and compassionate. No one was crying or throwing a fit. Welcome to the grown-up world of family planning.
A routine physical was part of the service, unexpectedly, and I found myself in the middle of my first well-woman exam ever. A year and a half previous when I'd been sicker than a dog with Mono, I'd been asked if it mightn't be a good idea to have one. They'd written in my chart, "refuses pap smear." It was that old-fashioned more again, that once she's done with the pediatrician, a woman's one and only physical should be just shortly before the marriage ceremony, and other than that she'd better not have a reason to be seeing the gynecologist on a regular basis.
Blood was drawn and tested, a quick ultrasound done (screen turned away), and feet in the stirrups. It was nothing, the exam, so fast and efficient I hardly felt a thing. When that part was over, I had to sign a bunch of papers, then then lay back down for laminaria. The whole procedure was a well-oiled machine.
It was necessary to wait around 3 hours for the compacted seaweed stick, not much bigger than a toothpick to start with, to do its job. My friend and I proceeded to the mall, another ubiquitous mid-western shopping center with several dreary department stores, long halls lined with cracker-box specialty shoppes full of unnecessary items, and a central food court. Up and down, up and down, go to the bathroom, eat, walk some more. By then the Valium they'd watched me swallow had kicked in and I was ready for a nap--could hardly keep my eyelids propped open. The cramps produced by the cervical dilator were the worst I'd ever had. They'd told me to expect this but it was just irritating. I want to push a button on my belly and make it stop. My imagination was terrifying me with all the things you hear about: botches, punctures, or bleeding for weeks till you wind up having a D&C, like my friend, who had nonetheless sent me to the same doctor. Not like anyone living where we did had much choice. We were visiting the nearest facility and the next option added three hours to the trip.
Soon my nerves were shot, despite the sedative. Rather than wigging out, I turned numb, feeling quite zombie-like. At the clinic they were good enough to assign each client a licensed counselor to help us with the paperwork and to talk to. As mine lead me back into the same cubicle/exam room I'd been in earlier, she basically told me, well, it was too late to change my mind now, but was I OK? I just wanted it to be over. While she went through her spiel, I examined the equipment as closely as I could from a physical distance of five feet and a mental remove approaching the width of the Grand Canyon.
Receiving my instructions, I removed my clothes again and donned their light green "gown." At least it was cotton instead of paper. The table awaited. It was a mountain to climb. My own personal shrink-for-an-hour took my hand as the doctor, who I hadn't seen before, walked in, followed by two nurses. He smiled; I smiled; we all smiled. The lady standing by my side seemed like my anchor on reality and I held on tight, suddenly grateful for her comfort.
It took no time for everyone to be ready except me. Maybe it was the Valium-altered perception, but it almost seemed like they were all moving at one hundred miles an hour and I was swimming through tar. Not that I was fighting or uncooperative, just lagging behind everyone else's relay race. I knew what I was supposed to do, but they had to keep prompting me.
Someone, one of the nurses, warned, "You're going to feel some strong cramping," which translated, "This is gonna hurt." I half sat up with the feeling I'd been punched in the gut, but was gently pushed back down. Years later while giving birth, I realized this and the laminaria expanding was a lot like labor, albeit a very shortened and abbreviated version. The worst was over; I felt nothing more but the suction tube moving around. They made sure to educate me that there are no nerve endings in the uterus, and that appeared to be true. The noise their machine made was like a dust-buster, quite un-threatening, and the suction sounds were more like what you hear at the dentist's office when they suck the spit out of your mouth during a cleaning. Thinking of tiny arms and legs floating in a jar of plasma, I actually asked to see the remains, but it wasn't allowed. No, they had to sift through the parts to make sure they got everything. I felt sorry for my little baby that was now dead, but I still was convinced that its life on earth would have been lacking in many, many respects, that I'd done it a kindness.
The first part of the trip back was through a groggy stupor. We got stranded in the blizzard in some podunk when the interstate closed. The one thing that stands out in my mind was how, when some of the townspeople volunteered to take in strandees for the night, my friend and I lied through our teeth about being (Christian) college students trying to get home. They chose to shelter us before a Korean family with a baby young enough not to be crawling yet. We were the last ones picked, and for all I know, the refugees spent all night in that little gas station which didn't even have so much as a chair for the mother to sit in to feed her baby or for the elderly grandmother to rest her bones on.
The interstate opened in the morning, and we got back home later that day. I returned to work the following day. For the first time in my life, when someone else called me bad names, I felt like he was justified. But I also believed I was right to have acted as I did. The receipt went to my insurance company & I got a check back for $50. A copy went to the other responsible party and he promptly deposited it in the circular file.
My 21st birthday was a month away; and I was sure my life would start then. The limbo between "legal" and "not legal" would be over, and I could leave this little misadventure behind.
Part Two
Not quite a year later, I did it again. After my first go-'round into this arena, the clinic had sent me home with 8 or 9 packs of birth control pills. Shortly after they ran out, so did my luck. I still couldn't admit to myself that I was a dirty girl. There was a new man; we were living together, defying our church, which played a big part in our lives, and hiding it from them. Instead of having the courage to do what I was going to do openly and face the music, so to speak, I pretended to go along with everyone else's agenda. However, I couldn't make myself do the obvious "moral" thing and have the baby. The mother instincts buried somewhere under my pride knew I wouldn't be able to give it up, and I wasn't ready to settle down yet. Not with this man.
Even so, a month of morning sickness is pretty distressing to go through for an unmarried girl bass player in a so-called Christian band. My timing might have been 'on', but the rest of life seemed to have turned itself on its head. I was just sick over the whole works. The disbelief and denial were working overtime. And why not? Who could I tell? I'd have to hide this too, from all the church people and everyone else. Even friends who'd been so supportive the year before drew back as they watched me get entangled with another controlling, rage-driven man. But I didn't see it, yet.
The logistics were similar enough. My boyfriend went along grudgingly, pocketing $50 for the day from me for lost wages. I barely recall anything about the trip itself: where we stayed, where we stopped for gas, what we talked about, what we did to pass the time. There was no blizzard. We paid in cash. Never mind that I'd borrowed a hundred dollars off my boss for gas money. Ed, my boyfriend, hocked his guitar for some of the rest, the first of what would become a never-ending habit with us. I lost my Fender acoustic guitar and was not able to reclaim it. After the doctor finished his services, I sat up in a Valium-induced haze and announced, "That was nothing! They make it sound so dirty..." I swallowed the pain and buried it.
A couple days later, when it was still quite tender as a result of the hormormal changes, Ed squeezed one of my breasts hard. He was forever messing with them. A drop of clear fluid appeared. "Milk!" he yelled and kept at me until he'd expressed a couple more drops, from each side. That was all there was. Just that one time. He revealed his desire to have sex with a woman with "big milkers," and suggested I get a breast pump. What a nauseating concept. I was more than content to let what little there was dry up.
Soon after, we moved. Our digs were the second story and attic of a disintegrating old house. Ed had tried remodeling it to some degree, but it was falling to ruin. We spent all of our time there with no flooring in the bathroom and a kitchen sink that ran non-stop. The kitchen itself stunk of cat shit that no amount of bleach could get rid of. In the unfinished attic, we auditioned singers and trolled for a drummer, for the band. I always got the feeling we weren't taken seriously because I was a chick. Could've been due as well to Ed's flashfire temper mixed unpredictably with a sickening smarminess when he wanted something, or perhaps simply our hypocrisy.
One night Ed broke out in a new song that was excruciating both to listen to and watch him sing. He'd named it "Sarah," and apparently had mentally named our lost child the same. My guilt loomed up to such an extent that I couldn't move for a good hour in fear that one little jiggle would burst the dam on an ocean of tears and screaming. I truly felt the only way to make up for [what I'd done] would be through years and years of punishment and penance. Even though God forgave me right there when I said in my heart that I was sorry, that wasn't good enough. Not for me, and certainly not for Ed. No way in Hell could I have calculated any of the results we'd be living five, ten years in the future, if someone had somehow managed to isolate me long enough to make me think it through. It didn't help that Ed insisted on singing THAT song in my presence every time someone came over, so I couldn't protest. Objecting would have revealed to people I didn't want to know about it, exactly whose kid it was. A couple of them probably figured it out antway from the expression on my face. I did, however, draw the line at playing along, musically speaking. Eventually I found that biting the insides of my cheeks whenever Ed sang it kept my face neutral.
He'd begun to drop little hints, subtle at first, then more openly, about how our band would never get anywhere in our current and perpetual state of sin. The fact is that in the church, you gain instant respectability when you marry or even announce the intent to marry. It was ironic: The whole 'playing in a band' thing was one means I had to feel good, whole, worth something. Playing music was the quintessential "God" experience for me; and had been for over five years. It was all tied together: music and church, church and music. You have to have somewhere to play. By then there were several events in my life I hadn't dealt with, not just the ones discussed earlier in this writing. When I was in front of a crowd, instrument strapped on and plugged in to a big amp, I would walk up to them without anyone knowing. God met me in the beat and the rhythm and the minor pentatonic harmonies. It allowed me to laugh and cry and get high in a way that was totally acceptable to a crowd that in every other aspect dictated abstinence and purity, which of course I was not practicing. Getting a spiritual 'trip' like that was only possible through music. The continuation of such an arrangement seemed to be dependent on me becoming "half."
I had to choose. Ed and I had reached a point in our relationship where it was 'get married or break up.' Truth be told, when we first met he seemed just what I wanted; I'd always (since the age of 17, when I got "saved") wanted to be married. It was the only morally acceptable way to have sex, after all. So there he was. The longer I knew him the less I liked him, but the more tied to him I became. When given the nudge to take what I'd asked for, I had to force myself, however defensively. Others waited, it seemed, hovering, while I tried to decide if I'd consort to Ed and his kids and his ex and his mountain of bills and bad credit, or send him home to his mommy. If I'd break up the band, since no one would accept us anymore (beneath their moral standards), or take the plunge and give us more time.
Other things that gave me the feelings of self-worth I craved were things Ed considered sin, evil, bad, bad, bad. Writing my own brand of "shit" (poetry), hanging out at camp, art. Ed was jealous of my time and of my interaction with anyone besides himself. Some of the things I did were admittedly self-destructive, though fun, like drinking and dancing in bars, and having flings with dish-boys from my work. Those days were numbered, too. Middle ground did not appeal to the virgin-seeking wanna-be ministers, nor to the party-hardy crowd. I was neither. And both.
The line I was feeding myself was that no one else would have me either. It would be better, certainly easier, to make due with what was there than to deal with the pain and loss of breakup and the humiliation he was sure to cause. Ed's personality would not have allowed him to get out of my life without smearing the blood around. Little did I know that six years later he'd be standing, screaming, on my parents' doorstep, rubbing their noses in every vain, wretched, secretive thing I'd ever done (the ones he knew about, anyway), which, by the time he got done with me, had added up plenty.
Did I love him? Yes. No. Maybe. It felt like it, partly because I wanted it to so hard. I couldn't overcome the feeling that I had to (and could) fix his problems by being a better wife to him than his ex, who I stoked a malignant hatred for. If I could just get him to look beyond my "sinful"
