Well, things started out on Thursday, as I was coming home on a bus from work. And right now I really can’t fucking concentrate because there’s a tv on in my room, so let’s just wing this.
When do you decide to buy into the overall idea that circulates, and when you do, what effect does it in fact have on your whole basic frame of reference? Take for example the underlying subtle idea or notion that, as a man living in LA, you somehow will hook up with gorgeous women, and have sex with them, and find yourself smiling a smug little smile the next morning lying next to her in her gorgeous bed.
Now this sounds like a pretty fucking good night. But one thing that makes things a bit weird, is that the girl probably didn’t do it because she likes you, or because you’re particularly witty or smart. She probably did it for the same reasons you did:
Because fucking beautiful people is what Los Angelans do. If you’re beautiful, if you work hard on your body, and wear nice or, better yet, somewhat outrageous clothes, and you’re fairly intelligent and have a stunted sense of guile or shame, you can have sex with more women here, I hazard, and hot, sexy women who have money or fame, no matter how moderate, than you can most other places.
I fucking love it. On the one hand that is, because I get a fucking redwood just thinking about the fabulous possibilities of sex life in this city in this foul year of our lord, second millennium, year six. And as the doors part on yet another club or bar, and my mind is dulled to any of the titillating scenes of flesh and nubileness flitting about the room. I scowl, refusing to acknowledge the fact that I could in fact turn into a blubbering, giggling fool at one word from one of these beauties.
This has not always been the case. Over perhaps the past four years, through the course of many embarrassing and painful liaisons and flings, I have learned some things. Mainly I understand to curb my emotions, to squelch the feelings of love and affection that arise immediately when talking to a superhot. I have learned to lock them away, ignore them, and generally abuse them until they are quite fed up, and really want to just go have a snack somewhere away from the more abusive synaptic functions.
But now to thinking with the head, with the cold hard heart of logic that shines forth everbright through the moving canvas of my prefrontal projection screen. The head tells me that beneath the scanty specs of clothing, under the finely adjusted makeup, hidden in the long, flowing locks of pristine hair, lies nothing. Not nothing in the sense of void, but nothing in the sense of substance, and I know that were I to wake up next to the girl the next morning, I would feel only slightly less revulsion at the sight of her delectable form than I would waking up next to a fatty slutbag.
But, as they say, fat girls need loving too, and after a while, you kind of take what you can get.
Now, the point I think of this brief missive is to say that BOTH sides fighting within are right, and have their valid reasons. I really do enjoy, on one level, the chase, acting out scenarios, reciting lines and generally playing one cool ass motherfucker, until this superhot is quite attracted, and I have the opportunity to be more aggressive, perhaps leisurely kiss her, or slap her ass, or refuse to buy her a drink.
On the other hand, the futility and absurdity of the whole situation makes me angry, and I just want to stop having to act, and just have a fucking intelligent conversation with a beautiful woman, then lay with her. I want to wake up next to her, and have her smile at me, and do stupid shit together, and have me fall in love.
Ah, that is when things get really shitty. Because, out here, in fact anywhere, if you fall in love, you’re fucked. You’re fucked unless you’ve known them awhile, or you’re friends of friends, or you have her parents tied up in a
Which is better, to be a hunter, or a fucking farmhand? Guh. Time will tell. Until then, I’m for goddamn sure not going to let my underappreciated ass go falling in fucking love.
Break. Some weeks later. Oh god, it’s pretty much happened. Kinda crept up on me. Of course, when you meet a gorgeous girl who bears all the characteristics you find attractive in a woman, things may get a little hairy. And all I have to do is to get myself away from constantly thinking about how she reacted slash is still reacting to our interactions this past week and some.
Flensing, cutting away at the happy smothering kindly self-pitying moods that highjack my senses. The deep, underlying urge to just try to fucking make shit happen with a woman I enjoy being around, that is what is killing me right now. And she loves it. And I know how she feels, because she has somewhat of the upper hand, and I’m not squirming too hard, just hard enough to scowl a lot and get really angry from time to time to maintain control. I’ve been there, seen girls go through that, basked in the harsh, uncaring glow of power and control.
And I’ve loved it. But after a while, it gets old, and the chick generally realizes that it’s worthless. I. Shit. I have tried to KNOW that it was worthless from the start. But her energy, and the feelings she was leaking that first night, and the other since then, those she can’t hide. And they give me hope. Hope springs eternal. Hope is a hellish poison that blinds.
On the one hand I hope that she will just give in. Hope that my not being TOO aggressive with her, not trying to force her into consensual sex may just in fact prove the fucking basis for something good, maybe even lasting. Fuck those random flashes in the pan. Short term pleasure, a temporary repose from the madness that comes with extensive lack of sex.
I want to understand that she would potentially be with me, and eschew random hookups, at least until one or both of us started drifting away. I wish that she were not as good at repression, that she was not as good as I at simply burying her urges, her desire to get down into wild sweating passionate biting pure lust. At hiding that powerful attraction, that love of closeness, that burning passion I sense off of her briefly at times, to hide behind the façade of cool calculation, of practiced indifference.
Maybe it’s that she’s been fucking random people so long that it’s gotten to the point that I’m just another steppingstone on the way to something better, on the way to the next conquest. Not to mean it in a cruel way. It’s just kind of what happens when you’re in the dating slash random hookup world for too long. Short attention span. Adult ADD. The transition to modern TV generation having already robbed us of our ability to fucking commit, and, with our similar mindsets, possibly similar self-perceived multiple personalities, we find ourselves alternately yearning for and despising commitment, love and a functional adult relationship. God this is a mess. I love it.
I just hope she’s going through at LEAST SOME OF THIS. Maybe not. Probably not. Shit. She probably was just running on booze the other night, and really didn’t enjoy the hugs, your light kisses on her forehead. Yeah. When all else fails, hit low. Aim for the balls, for the blinding goodness growing inside you, and kill the fucker. Show him what for. Take him down piece by piece, for nothing good can come out of this most likely, only more heartbreak. But, oh, if it could.
And it’s not like you didn’t do it to enough young innocent beautiful things yourself so a good many fucking times. Why the fuck are you so honest with her, and she with you? How is it that you’re comfortable around each other like old friends? Conditioning? Perhaps. Both used to being around many persons of the opposite sex, flirting, acting, hinting, luring, crushing? Maybe.
One option of course is that a little part of her wants to just fucking try, and her rational self told that part to go fuck itself. Kicked it in the ass down the stairs, for any number of reasons. Past boyfriends. Suckerfish fucks who told her she was gorgeous, then fucked her for what it was worth. Really great guys who just couldn’t find the courage or the angle to make it out of Friendsville, always delegated to the sidelines, bearing her grief at the next failed man. Secretly hoping that one day she’ll pick them. Wait for it, and die sad.
Carpe diem, make it happen, create your opportunities, stay focused, and move when the time is right. Take the pain, take the confusion and love for her, ride it out, see where it goes, but stick to your guns, and don’t go down without a fight. For this one, she is, simply put, beautiful.
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