theology&geometry

But all I ask of you is that you don’t make me feel like a fucking chump.

Sometimes it’s 11 p.m. and the boy you’re smitten with emerges from the office, where he’s been studying, and says, “Want to go for a drive?” because he’s got to run some fancy magic juice through his gas tank so he can pass his emissions test in the morning. And that is how you will find yourself going east, east, east, and telling him to drive you past your very first Memphis apartment, which gives you an excuse to talk about your life many lives ago when things were so vastly different from the way they are now. And that is how you will find yourself going even further east and getting a tour of his first apartment complex, whose story doesn’t have an ideal ending, but which rough drafts do? And that is how you will find yourself wandering aimlessly through the aisles of the fanciest Kroger you’ve ever seen and consenting to the purchase of discounted black-forest cheesecake that you will later declare gross. And that is how you will find yourself on the interstate, heading South toward Graceland, and then Mississippi, and then Tunica, where you will be utterly confused and overwhelmed and amazed at the amount of ancient people in wheelchairs pushing blinking buttons in a smoke-stale, very loud, brightly carpeted room at 2 in the morning. And that is how you will squander $30 playing games you don’t understand but win back $20 at video Blackjack, your remaining $10 nestled safely in the belly of a game called — fittingly — “Miss Kitty.” And that, as you are walking sleepily through the parking lot back to the car, whose gas gauge has managed to nearly stay put despite all the traveling, is when you will hold that boy’s hand and hope that he is having as much fun on the adventure as you are.

Manfred, via text message: You’re all I think about unless I have to pee. Then I think about that.

He stirs early, then comes back to me, sometimes with coffee on his breath. His hair is usually damp by then, and mussed. He wears black socks on his feet under pressed slacks. I like to watch him tie his tie, consider the results, and retie if needed. A few more sips of coffee and he’s looking at the clock on his phone, cussing at the minutes. Where did they go? I stand on the porch and kiss him on the mouth, then pad out to my car barefoot, wiping sleep out of my eyes, and back the car up so he can get out of the driveway. On productive days I go back inside, finish the coffee he left, and spend some time doing things: writing, photographing, freelancing, reading, gardening. Other days I melt into the couch and let the cats perch on top of me while I watch discs of Deadwood and Kids in the Hall. Some days I indulge myself with a nap around noon, but it never really refreshes. Just gives me odd dreams and makes me groggy and even less motivated to go to work.

On the weekend when we both get to sleep in, he stirs early and comes back to me, and we spend the morning hours laughing and out-sillying one another — inventing bad infomercials, bad products, bad bands, bad songs — our skin at times so close it fuses for a few minutes and then we sleep again, the sun teeming, mottled, through the shutters. Usually by then the cats have begun to suspect we’ve died in there and will never be coming back out, and they transmit their fear of an emptying food bowl via pained, persistent pleas with the door and its knob until I have my fill of insolence and slip out from under the sheets, hissing my anger at them as they greet me in the hallway and trot to their bowl to remind me of why I was put on this earth. It is then, in those minutes as he sleeps in my bed without me, that I am perhaps at my most domestic.

In the daylight I can see every cat hair tumbleweed and stray piece of lint on the floor. Coffee grounds on the counter top. Water spots in the bathroom. Dust on the sideboard. Mildew on the shower curtain. I turn the sprinklers on so the plants can get a drink and scrub the week’s detritus from the counter tops, placing each scattered glass I come across in the dishwasher. I boil water for coffee and hang coupons on the fridge as I wait for the grounds to steep. I gather damp towels and stray socks in the hamper and take inventory of what I’ve got left clean to wear. I empty the litter box and sweep up around it, fantasizing about the day I will be able to afford ceramic tile for the floor of the back room so stray bits of grit will no longer be able to hide under wonky cork tiles. I form neat piles of recyclables on the counter and haul them outside to the bin where they will sit until Thursday, when he will place them by the street without my even asking him to. I leaf through the week’s mail and shred most of it by hand before throwing it away. The rest goes into a pile, where I will decide what to do with it next week. (Spoiler alert: I will place it in a larger pile.)

It is me and my house in those hours — me setting right what the week’s living has wrought on the place that I have had a pretty intense love affair with now for nine months. It’s work and it takes time and is somewhat unpleasant but when I am in the mood to do it, it feels less like work than many other things I do.

When he shuffles into the living room to greet me and the day, I share what’s left of the coffee with him. He tells me it’s good and I can’t help but smile to myself. It wasn’t all that long ago that I wrote somewhere — a blog entry draft, an online dating profile, who knows — that sometimes I make a pot of coffee so good that I just want to have someone to share it with. I’ve got something much better than that right now.

This is one of the sweetest things I have ever seen:

Congratulations to Mary and Kepa! May you have many, many happy years together.

That’s been the name of my game lately, it seems.

My sister’s ordeal has been its own beast, and one that has not yet been fully tamed. She’s coping. I’m coping. We’re all coping. We are mining hope like it’s our job and so far it has either actually helped or made it seem that way.

But there is other uncertainty around. It swirls up from the bottom like creamer in my coffee, making things sweeter but triggering my constant suspicion that it’s not good for me. I savor it when I can get my mouth on it. I think about it a lot. I don’t know what it all amounts to but in my more self-indulgent moments I imagine myself getting used to it and the feeling washes over me and I’m left with a stupid grin on my face and some hazy, sun-speckled idea of what the near future could hold. I am full of pride and know better than to let myself get carried away with getting carried away. And yet. I am doe-eyed and hopeful and possibly naive and definitely making mixed CDs and constantly plotting and scheming (and not in the deceitful way) and hoping the day away. The scary part is that all of this could be in my head, even the real parts. If that makes sense. It doesn’t, I know.

I am putting myself out there, wincing. Bring it, Universe. I can handle you.

I’m working on this story about a boy and a girl who like each other but the boy has these weird hangups where he is absent during important moments in the girl’s life. Times like when she needs help moving, when she throws her housewarming, that time she has to drive herself to the emergency room, those times her out-of-town friends come to visit and to meet her other friends, that party she throws, that other party she throws, that time she goes home from work sick but he stays out at bars until 6 a.m., that time her roof starts leaking really badly during a storm, that time she organizes 500 people for an annual get-together that took months of hard work and planning. The boy is just not there for these things. Sometimes he sleeps through them. Sometimes he just doesn’t answer his phone or texts until after the event has passed. Sometimes he has a whole elaborate scheme of excuses to explain why he wasn’t there. Sometimes he uses the word “whatever” when explaining why he wasn’t there for her. The girl doesn’t understand why the boy is this way, and every time he flakes on her, she spends several days pouting about the boy’s lack of shit-giving, but then eventually comes back around because she misses him, and he always swears he will do better. And it’s not like he never does anything nice for her. Sometimes he fixes her car and makes dinner for her, or sends her flowers when he has fucked up.

The girl is lonely, and full of the need to care for someone. She wants to care for the boy, but he makes it difficult. And what morsels of affection she gets from the boy she stores and lives on for weeks, until the boy does something to again remind her that he, for whatever reason, just cannot be bothered to care. Even though he says he does. He says he has a hard time showing his affection. The boy is telling the truth.

The cycle, without fail, sends her into a spiral of self-loathing that is, quite honestly, difficult to commit to paper or screen. She pleads with the ceiling sometimes to send her someone to care for who delights in her and the life she has worked so hard to build. She doesn’t understand why the boy doesn’t want in on her life. She’s terrified that no one will ever want in on her life, if this person who says he cares about her doesn’t even want in.

I’ve run this story past a couple of people. Everyone has said for months to shut it down. That it’s a sad story and that I can write a better one. I have waffled, and been reluctant to just abandon it, thinking maybe I can salvage it in some way. But I see everyone’s point.

It’s a frustrating story, and one I can’t make work, despite my repeated attempts.

So I’m shutting it down.

My grandmother is trying to fix me up with a boy.

Who lives in Australia.

No, really.

My comment got to be a bit too long for this post, so I decided to pull it out and continue the discussion here.

One problem with this column is that it presupposes so much based on stereotypical assumptions that it’s basically meaningless. What about men with low sex drives? What about women with high sex drives? What about men who like talking about emotional stuff with their partners? What about lesbians and gay men? What about women who are not emotional talkers? What about couples that actually understand how to love each other and get along regardless of the amount of fucking that’s happening?

I’ve got lots of problems with this column, but the bit I pulled out and quoted Friday was just some of the more egregious crapola — the idea that a man can’t be inconsiderate and selfish in his pursuit of sex because it’s how he’s built is silly. Even if a man is having a genuine sexual jones — one that’s based on intense love and affection for his partner — if he’s being a hound about it even as his partner is telling him no, for whatever reasons, that’s being selfish and he needs to be called on it. The same goes if the sexes were switched.

Sex is not so all-important that we get to go around acting entitled about our right to have it. You can have as much sex as you want with yourself. But drag another person into it, and you better stop to consider his or her feelings about it every step of the way. There is little that is more toxic to a relationship than the feeling of being nagged to do something. A chorus men will sing “amen!” at that notion (about whatever stereotypical man-job you can dream up: Mowing the lawn, taking out the trash, etc.). Being nagged for sex is just as exhausting.

Cox said in the comments of the previous post:

Sexual urges are natural and healthy — not something to be ashamed of.

I think that’s true. But I think an extension of this is a lack of sexual urges is natural and healthy — not something to be ashamed of. People who want to fuck, people who don’t want to fuck, people who can’t fuck — they are all capable of healthy, loving relationships.

This may be a revolutionary concept, but I don’t believe that sex is absolutely essential for a healthy romantic relationship. There are people for whom sexual activity just isn’t that important, and people for whom sexual activity is physically impossible. I can’t imagine that these people are incapable of making long-term relationships work.

Sexuality, for everyone, exists on some sort of continuum that science has just barely begun to understand. Every person has his or her own preferences about sex. Some people have high libidos, others have low libidos. Everyone’s libido likely fluctuates depending on life circumstances.

To embark on a long-term, monogamous relationship without understanding that your own sexual appetite is probably never going to completely synch with your partner’s is short-sighted. We have to understand that things will happen in our lives that will shift sex’s position on our priorities list. Or, if not our own, then probably our partners’. It may not be a permanent shift, but it will be a shift nonetheless. And if we’re willing to run off and get our jollies with another partner because ours (whom we love, we swear!) isn’t capitulating to the awesome will of our horniness, then maybe we aren’t entirely ready for a long-term relationship anyway.

Clerk: You’re not single, are you?

Me: No. Nope. [smiling a pained smile from the barb of my asshole lie]

Clerk: [pause] What has a guy got to do to get a girl to like him? What do girls see in guys?

Me: Ahh, that’s a good question. [pause, stare blankly, blink, drool] I guess he’s got to be nice, smart, funny, genuine. All that cliché stuff, you know? [smirk of someone who must immediately self-identify as a clueless jerk for that retarded answer] If I knew, man, I’d tell the world!