Tuesday, July 26, 2005

Most Of All

So I watched that movie Thirteen. Reminded me a lot of going through all that- but for me it was around 14. Not that it was as bad or I was as stupid. My bad behavior included making out, alcohol, shoplifting, wearing too much lipliner, sneaking out, hating my body cause it's not like in Victoria's Secret, wearing really short skirts anyway, and lighting stuff on fire. No drugs or sex or blowjobs or anorexia or self mutilation or lesbian stuff. Definitely some crappy handjobs. And a crash course in learning the hard way exactly what hooking up meant. That shaped me pretty much for the rest of my life. Like "hmm, I guess they don't necessarily call you back." I learned simple emotional detachment from physical activity. And that hasn't made me into a slut who sleeps around. Rather it enables me to both throw the same shit back into men's faces as they do to most women, and I wholeheartedly enjoy hookups as something nice and fun at that moment and at that time. Not letting it go too far and being selective about the person who you hook up with are the 2 key ingredients to happy emotionally vacant hookups. There is pure good in just plain kissing a young hot piece of ass. It's awesome. Granted I enjoy doing more than that. But I don't fuck around, literally.

And there is a difference between a good hookup and real intimacy. A good hookup is a Robert Rodriguez movie, glossy, curvy, sparkling, luscious. And if you’re lucky it’s a little James Cameron, with some cold hard metal and large boats. A good hookup is a juicy peach. It should fill your mouth with wet sweetness and leave you hungry for more when you’re done. But not real sweetness. Something immediate. Something instantly satisfying.

But when you eat a lot of peaches you can forget about all the beauty that’s overlooked in your devouring.

And when you experience intimacy you know it. It hits you hard in the face with its glaring reality. It’s sobering, it’s in the light of day. And it had been almost a year before I felt it again without even remembering that I had been missing it (this didn’t happen recently btw). It took me by such surprise that I cried to myself. It’s the kind of touching that tells you that your skin is the most beautiful thing in the world, that reminds you of all these forgotten places on your body that are suddenly being celebrated. The places you can’t see in the mirror feel like heaven when kissed caringly and gently. It reminds you that your body is an amazing and beautiful temple to be worshipped. When you have a physical relationship with someone you love, you forget that the love is there even when you just touch. That the little things, like kissing someone’s neck in the morning and brushing past the inside of their arms, stop happening when you aren’t in love or don’t have intimacy with someone. I’m not afraid of intimacy. I just refuse to pass that shit around. I don’t want my hand held or my bed occupied in the morning by someone who is there for nighttime purposes only. And in the name of things being awesome, this doesn’t mean that nighttime purposes aren’t important purposes.

But I did have intimacy without love this past year. And it was based on a special kind of connection I had with someone, a unique kind of trust. Maybe it was the trust that made it possible, but for some reason, I was able to be affected by this person. I let him in. I let him stay in the morning. I let him see me cry. I looked forward to seeing him. He is a friend.

I love men.

Sometimes I hate them too.

But mostly, I love them. I love to sample all the different flavors. I love their stupid smiles and dumb comments. I love how transparent and simple they are. I love how easy they are to trick, and how easy they are to see right through. I love how they think being irritable is being tough, and how silly they can be when they are mad. I love how easily they can get me all worked up because they have no idea how to communicate. I love what sappy emotional messes they are when their vulnerability is exposed. I love their comradery and their sense of youth and fun. I love being in cars with them. I love their friendship. I love how much beer they can drink. I love their eyes and big hands and chest hair. But most of all, I love their cocks.

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