Sometimes I am amazed at myself. I'm far from a puritan, but I have actually been quite selective in my bedroom. Last night.. I was just vulnerable. I have been, ever since I let "him" out of my life. Six years, and even when it was bad, our dysfunctional relationship was my stability. This is the first time ever, in my adult life I haven't had that beacon.

Last week I said the most dangerous thing to me would be a guy who was trying to score, but when we talked.. actually listened to me. Not a spring break jock looking for some action, but someone who I connected with mentally.. but in the end was just looking for fun.

I know girls who want to fuck, just to fuck.. At times I have felt this way, even if I didn't act on it. I know sex and love don't always come in pairs. .. Last night I felt the connection.. I also knew what wound up happening was fucked up, my fault.. My objective was wrong. I missed being held, having someone wrap themselves around me, and feeling their soft breath on my neck.

So now I am here noding.. and he is asleep in my bed. I kinda wish he snuck out in the middle of the night, but instead we have plans to go to the beach.. I don't know how to act and what to say.. I hate the morning after..

The fucked up part is, Liz Phair was on repeat while we were.. well.. and the song Fuck and Run came on over 3 times.
After being certain that this girl is the one I love, even as we have been separated emotionally and spatially the entire time (There were some brief flashes of exquisite bliss at irregular intervals, though), for a number of years, I find myself in the position I have so often envisioned during this time: In her bed, her facing away from me, my hand on her shoulder. She was asleep moments ago, but now I hear her heavy breathing subside and I see her eyelashes flutter for a moment before she opens her eyes.
And yet I cannot just enjoy the moment. I fear that I don't really love her, that I've just been obsessed with her to provide an escape route from other potential relationships, and I wonder if I can make the transition from infatuation to love after such a long time. In addition to that, there is also a chance that this might turn out to be a transfer relationship, as she recently came out of a rather messy relationship. And need I add that the spatial discrepancy between us haven't exactly decreased since we got together, so this will most likely be a long distance relationship as well.

Funny how flawed ones dreams and desires of perfection seem when inspected more closely, even if the object of those dreams remain perfection embodied.

My eyes snap open before I feel the pain beginning to set in. Well, not exactly “snap open” but more like they drifted apart and I squint against the light shining from the bedroom window. It hurts to be awake and I try and crawl out of bed but there’s another body lying there next to me. I breathe deep and wonder just who the fuck it is this time and swing my legs over the side. The bed creaks and the sound it makes is like fingernails on a blackboard and it echoes in my ears like a gunshot. I close my eyes and sit on the edge of the bed wondering who set off the train wreck inside my head. I grab a pair of shorts and throw them on and let whoever it is sleeping next to me get their rest.

I stumble to the bathroom and piss a stream of yellow for what seems like hours all the while moaning inside my head about how good it feels to get that released from inside me. After I’m done, I look in the mirror to assess last night’s damage and I’m buoyed that it doesn’t look all that bad. Sure, my hair is tangled and has taken on a strange shape and my tongue is thick with leftover booze, tobacco and spit and seems not to want to let go off the roof of my mouth. My eyes look like they’ve cried a river of tears and are as bloodshot as I’ve ever seen them but all in all it’s nothing that some Listerine, toothpaste , Visine and a shower won’t cure. I tell myself, “I’ve been worse”

I make my way downstairs and almost trip on the shoes and other assorted pieces of clothing that look like they’ve been torn off in a frenzy of passion. I try and dance my way around them and almost fall but thank God for the handrail that keeps me from pitching down the last three or four steps and breaking something.

My cat gives me what can best be described as a dirty look as I make my way to the kitchen to make some much needed coffee. I open a can of wet food to give him to try and make the peace and the smell of it gets to me and I begin to dry heave over the kitchen sink . The feeling soon goes away and I wander into the living room where I’m greeted by over flowing ashtrays and half filled beer bottles with cigarette and God knows else floating inside of them.

I wonder how the fuck a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken AND some empty bags of Taco Bell made it into the house and are just sitting there on the coffee table. It looks as if the cat tore into at least one of them as there are chicken bones and sauce packets strewn around the room. After awhile, I give up. I figure it’s no use trying to remember. It is what is for now and maybe as the day wears on some snippets of the night before will fill themselves in. Yeah, right.

I look in my backyard and wonder why my car is parked sideways but I say to myself, “Hey, at least it’s there” and go about surveying the damage. I look at the fireplace and atop the mantle sits a pile of bills all wadded up in a little ball and some loose change. I unravel the ball and wonder how I made it out alive since I still have about thirteen dollars left to my name when I started out the night with about a hundred. I figure I’m not in the red just yet since the thirteen bucks is enough to maybe get a fresh pack of smokes and a six-pack of beer and payday is only a day or two away.

I see some CD’s tossed around and don’t for the life me recall putting on Don McClean’s American Pie but there it is staring me in the face. Good lord, I was probably singing the chorus to that tune, you know, the one that goes:

Bye, bye Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee
But the levee was dry
And good old boys were drinkin’ whisky and rye
Singin’ “This will be the day that I die.”

Wow. That act again? It never fails. I get my load on and throw some old 60’s and 70’s tunes on and think I can sing with the best of them. I rationalize it the way I do with almost everything else. Hey, at least I wasn’t singing this shit in public.

Or was I?

I’ll call one my buddies later in the day and maybe he can help me fill in the missing pieces.

I let out a sigh and decide to let my company (whoever it is) get some much needed sleep. I can feel one of those nervous hangovers coming on where I seem to worry about everything under the sun. I wonder how long it will be before the fog will lift and I can make some sense of the night before.

God, I could use a drink…



I don’t need

to be breathless

I don’t need

to watch you sleep


I don’t need

to kiss your hair

or know you’re there

the morning after


I don’t need

to know your old black boots

are under my bed


I don’t need

your flannel shirt

on the back of my old chair


I need to know

when you were alone

if you heard a voice

and if you protested


I need to know

what you said to the night

when it rested its hand

in the small of your back


I need to know

if you opened your fist


I need to know

if it left you breathless


and I need to know

what you did

the morning after.


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