Posts Tagged ‘ocean fog’

Things That Are Taboo

May 21, 2015

Wanting to have sex with your ex boyfriend.

Or maybe, you know, just um, cuddle.

Yeah.

That.

My motives are shit right now and I know it and so I won’t be seeing my ex boyfriend any time soon.

It’s just in the air, the fog, the mist, the shiny, slippery streets–it’s so foggy out there that when I left the Sunset Youth Services a few moments ago I thought at first that it was raining.

But no.

Fog.

It’s lovely though and put me in the mood for snuggling.

I choose to snuggle with myself this evening.

Being in communication with my ex has been interesting and I have done some more work around me and how I respond and feelings and all that and why, gosh, it just turns out that I am human.

“You obviously had a strong bond,” he said to me over tea at the Church Street Cafe, “girl, you too were electric, there was chemistry there.”

“And that doesn’t necessarily go away, connection is connection, it’s when the instinct gets blown out of whack, that’s the problem.”

Yup.

So.

No calling up the ex, not inviting him over for a late night cup of tea.

If I were to see him it would best be in daylight across a table in a busy cafe.

No touching.

Ahem.

God.

I miss being touched.

I met someone tonight who I have seen around a little and we recognized one another from a different part of town.

He shook my hand and I just stood there.

Human contact.

Such a small thing and yet, so necessary.

I think about the failure to thrive orphanage video I watched in psychology class years and years and years ago, about the babies that had everything they needed, food, nutrition, a bed to sleep in, clothes, but no love.

And what happens?

They die.

I mean.

That’s serious.

I’m not there.

And I love myself enough to know that I won’t let myself get there.

But I can still get caught up in the what to wear thing and the being attractive thing and I was going to head out this evening after work and go straight to my place and do the deal in my pajamas after coming home from a long day at work and taking a smashing hot shower, but I got it in my head I would bump into the ex and boy, I better look cute.

Thanks brain.

Now I need to wash off the makeup.

But.

In reality, it helped, I like looking cute and you never know who you might run into, who might take your hand and squeeze it tight.

Of course.

I don’t remember his name, but the kind eyes were bright and the hand was strong and the arm covered in tattoos.

I like all of these things.

I like that he said he was in the neighborhood too, 48th and Kirkham.

I like that my brain also wondered, is he gay?

‘Cause I can pick ’em like that.

I like that he said, my class is done, I’ll be back here on Wednesday nights again.

Good.

So.

Something, someone to look forward to.

That’s been the other thing.

With the exception of someone from absolute left field who as it turns out, though attracted to me, though someone who has had a crush on me (!) reached out to me, he’s not available and I haven’t had anyone that I have been crushing on.

I haven’t had any zing.

Anything or anyone that makes me get all a quiver and excited.

I miss that feeling too.

That nice shiver of anticipation.

And kissing.

Oh.

I miss kissing.

I need to be kissed.

For reals.

It’s been four and a half months since the breakup.

There’s been no kissing, no sex, no snuggling, no cuddling, no nothing.

My bicycle seat’s been getting all the action.

And I look, good damn it.

In fact, I look better than when I was with my ex.

I dropped about five pounds and tightened up a bit, all the extra bicycle riding, went down a dress size, got my hair shaped up, and colored a fabulous pink, and I haven’t gotten any play.

Granted.

I could have.

That whole trying Tinder for a day was enough to let me know there are plenty of guys out there who have no interested in whether or not I can read a sentence in a book or carry a conversation, as long as I can bend over and lift my skirt.

Please.

You have to try a little harder.

I ride by Good Vibrations every day on my way back to my house, the one on Valencia at 17th, and I keep finding myself wondering if it’s just time for a new vibrator.

Sigh.

Nothing wrong with a new sex toy.

Let’s be adults here folks.

But my dildo can’t kiss the back of my neck while I play the soundtrack to Amelie and listen to the whisper of the fog horns off the coast herald the misty night swathing the neighborhood.

I wonder then if it’s time to climb back into the dating websites or if I just hold steady for a while yet.

See what happens when I’m not looking, just keep going about my day and my life and someone will notice, step forward, and say, yes, let me kiss you in the door way, press you against the orange painted gate of your house and run my hands though your wild pink hair.

I will here Yann Tiernan in my head and sigh and melt into the air and the fog will swirl my heart away out over the ocean.

I don’t want sex.

That’s the real taboo thing.

I can talk sex all day long, and I do want sex, don’t let my words mislead.

But I want the courtship first, the date, I want to pick up a book and hold his head in my lap and read to him and I want to be wrapped, tucked tight, really, in the crook of a man’s arm and held, guided, led through the mists out to the beach, where the love smashes itself on the sand and the electric blue jellyfish flay themselves on the sand, melting into the tide line like mermaid tears.

That’s what is taboo.

Wanting love.

To be loved.

To want romance.

That is the real deal breaker.

I wait for it.

The carousel will stop turning and I will grab the brass ring and sail around the perimeter of the square, while accordions play and the sun sprays on my face a calliope of desire and love.

Until then.

Another cup of tea.

A few more words on this page.

I open my heart to give and receive love.

I shall start with me.


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