FLIRTING WITH HUMANITY

                                                                                                FLIRTING WITH HUMANITY


          My thoughts are treading on the surface of scotch and self-loathing as I detach from Heather and attempt to sink into the mattress, hopefully deep enough to evade embarrassment. A beautiful woman, three blow jobs and this, our first time fucking, albeit intoxicated, and not a single drop of cum…not a one…not even a pity tear. This has never happened to me before, but then again neither has the likes of her. After floating adrift comfortably for years in a sea of pointless pussy, this happens. She happens. My thoughts are all mangled. My stomach is in knots. My heart’s pulsating for perhaps the first time and my dick is in mutiny. I think you’re just about caught up.

         Heather rolls on top of me, lets out a sigh and places her beautiful head against my ailing heart. For a brief second the fantastic dream of being so close to something so magical, that its magnificence might rub off, seep through my skin and massage my soul actually permeates throughout my being. Foolishly, I begin to melt and tentatively embrace the moment for what it is. Sensing my momentary release of tension she gazes up and locks eye’s with me. In defense I close them, trapping my insecurities inside, choosing to continue living a life of darkness.

         Once again detached from reality and ensconced in my head, I try to imagine a more confident me. James 2.0. I’m about six inches taller, sporting a huge dick and I make woman weep down south with my soulful poetry. That is not me, in a better world perhaps, but not in this one. I’m the neurotic guy who’s currently trying to mentally convince his stomach to stop fucking gurgling before she hears it and I delve deeper into my inevitable embarrassment. That’s me, stomach guy.

         Its funny how for whatever reason, certain people just really fucking appeal to you. Not just physically but mentally and emotionally as well. For me that’s Heather. I just dig her. From her raspy voice to the way she tastes, it feels like home. And I know people say you can never go home again but that’s not true. Not if you can find someone who just completely appeals to your senses. You can go home with every kiss, look or mannerism. You just have to know where home is and try really fucking hard not to get lost on your wayward journey. My problem is I’m chronically lost and my navigational skills are shit.

         So more about Heather, she’s old. Not “old” old but my age. Which is thirty and it may sound bad but I don’t think of myself as being old, just her. Now, before you get pissed off and stop reading due to my being a dick, which I can’t really dispute, just hear me out. I’ve only really gone after younger girls. It’s just easier and I don’t have to feel insecure about the fact that I’ve accomplished jack shit with my life. It’s a win-win for everybody. I get laid and the rookie bar hopper gets to fulfill some sort of daddy issue fantasy. I realized this a few years ago, which coincidentally is right around the same time I grew a beard and started speaking with just the slightest hint of condescension. But back to Heather, she’s blonde, smart, and witty. She also happens to be in possession of a naturally perfect feminine body. She even has the right amount of sparse pubic hair, which I find ballsy and progressive in a day and age where usually I get lost in my own reflection whilst performing cunnilingus. Truthfully, she’s far prettier than she believes herself to be and this of course, just makes her all the more alluring. However, she also happens to be eight kinds of crazy, speaks only in contradictory tongue and is probably just as confused by her own reflection as she is by my antics. She’s the kind of woman I usually gravitate towards, the beautifully broken. The fantasy of being able to save ourselves from ourselves is a fantastical one; both epic in nature and romantic at heart, but realistically it’s an uphill battle, likely to repeat itself tediously until gravity wins out. Sisyphus would empathize with our romantic trajectory.

         Still atop me, our bodies as one, I can feel her growing restless. Not of her, of me. I’m absent, writing this piece, yelling at my stomach and wondering why in the fuck she would be here with me when she could be anywhere else. Be with anyone else. I’m thirty years old and I’m currently unemployed. I’m a non-practicing writer who bats more bullshit ideas around in his head then he does fingers on a keyboard. I drink, a lot. Not so much that I’ve been arrested or walk around day drunk but enough to know that I hate myself and a bottle is a pretty good escape. It’s like a vacation every time I pick up a glass of rye, and it’s a lot fucking cheaper than a ticket to Fiji.

         Heather loses interest immediately and slowly departs to her side of the bed, only her intoxicating scent remains. There’s only about twelve inches between us but it might as well be twelve miles. I study her topless back. The way her waist dips and her hips explode. I immediately resent myself. Wanting to prove my worth with a second chance at snuggling I shimmy closer, narrowing the gap to that of about a cocks worth. I place my arm over her; inhale deeply as if trying to be infected by normalcy. It feels right, but that’s what scares me.  I squeeze a little harder, firmer; you know, manly like and fight the temptation to fuck up, to self-destruct. It’s in moments like this where I’ve lost my shit in the past. The Idea of feeling so comforted and close is as foreign to me as Fiji will forever be, because again, I’m unemployed. I don’t know how better to explain this feeling but to use the Heisenberg effect as an example. In physics, this rule states that the simple and innocent act of attempting to observe an atom in its natural state directly causes the atom to act erratically. Inevitably, it’s a pointless venture. It’s impossible to behave naturally whilst being observed, even if by yourself. So every time I feel happy, I always end up catching myself, thus no longer in the often sought moment. That sliver of time that taunts so many of us, yet, embraces a selected few. I hate those fuckers, but I probably went down on a few of their sisters, so we’ll call it even.

         Laying there, embracing her and attempting to regain what little is left of my manhood, I can’t help but think of every movie I’ve ever seen when the guy knows that he’s losing the girl. Whether it’s as subtle as lying in bed and feeling distant or John Cusack holding a fucking boom box over his head, it’s all the same and it’s all inevitable. We, as men, win some and lose some but ultimately, even the ones we win, we lose. It’s in our nature. Being romantically self-destructive is ingrained, inherited. I’d say emotionally stunted but I don’t personally think that’s the case, not at all. We’re emotional, I assure you, It’s just a question of how much of it can we afford to put out into the cruel world. Exposed to life’s, as well as woman’s, brutal elements. I for one, often feel like an emotional piñata. But that’s me; take it or fucking leave it.

         Currently lost in my emotional and mental scotch fog, I barely notice that she begins to make her way out of bed. She slides away, carelessly, yet cautiously. I get it. I fucking hate that I get it but I do. She stands up and avoids any and all eye contact. She temporarily prods around for her shirt before giving up the pursuit of the clothed. She then covers her breast as she walks off to the bathroom, tiptoeing, not to be quite but as if not to sink into reality. This, like so many things, pisses me off.  Why cover the nipples? I was literally licking your ass ten minutes ago. I’m perplexed by her timid actions, and for someone like me, someone… devoid of intimacy, I crave the bare naked moments of awkwardness. There’s a level of purity to it all, a genuinely natural component and that sense or level of exposure makes me feel as if I’ve made it. I’m there, the Promised Land, where adults live and people like me vacation. I feel as though this is what people do, real people. They open up, emotionally, physically, warts and all. She consciously robbed me of this moment and now, as a result, a level of awareness has set in and I know now that I am doomed, the albatross beckons. I feel as though I’m at home, sort of, and she’s drowning in a pool of indecision. I could dive in after her but I know that I’m too drunk to swim. I’d just sink to the bottom, like an inebriated anchor.

         Heather exits the bathroom and navigates her way throughout the darkness of the night. This time relying on night fall to conceal her vulnerability from me. She moves more comfortably and without shielding herself. I’m actually able to catch a momentary and intimate glimpse of her beauty as she passes in front of the window and I can honestly say I’ve never loved moonlight more in my life. However the sighting was so brief that I now resent the fact that my bedroom doesn’t possess larger windows, although, a ceiling of glass wouldn’t have been enough to do her justice. She gets into bed, slides under the sheets and leans in for a kiss. I oblige, I mean, obviously who wouldn’t. She’s an amazing kisser, and we play well together in that department. It’s always passionate and easy to get lost in. Although, this time I notice that she taste of mouthwash and this realization has me contemplating the portions that had remained in the bottle. There wasn’t much left so she had to have finished my mouthwash. That bitch. Who does that? Who takes the last swig, which doesn’t even belong to you in the first place? People… they’re the worst.

         I resist the urge to bitch about the mouthwash, not because I don’t find it to be a valid complaint but rather, the idea of attempting normalcy and staying present is more appealing at the moment. It’s hard not to appreciate a woman who gently moans and sighs even during just a make-out session. If faked it’s agitating, emasculating even but when it’s genuine, it can melt your heart and stir up your loins. Her sigh alone drives me nuts, in a good way. I noticed this during our first time fooling around. A delicate sigh of gratification during a kiss on the neck or a well-placed hand, not unusual at all but Heather’s hit me a little harder, echoed a little longer. That’s not when I became enamored with the sigh though, that was just its first appearance, it actually took non sexual situations for its legend to grow.

        The first time the sigh was not sexually induced took place at the movies, amongst a room full of strangers, including Heather. It was our first legitimate date, a movie date. Not my style really but we all have to adapt or die. I can’t live and grow on bar hookups alone. I’ve tried and it doesn’t work… but back to the movie. There was a scene I found to be rather poorly written; she of course gobbled up the rhetoric dialog. But it was in this scene were my fondness of her grew. The movie was based on a book and she had joyfully read it before, so she knew what was coming and sat up in her seat to better appreciate the looming verbal diarrhea that was eventually the scene. But as I watched her out of the corner of my eye, I couldn’t help but be moved. The scene took place; she watched intently and when the scene played out and finished she sighed so fucking adorably I almost lost my shit. It wasn’t the scene itself that made her sigh; it was her satisfaction with way it played out. She felt comforted by the idea that sometimes things do workout the way you want them to. In hindsight, this moment ruined me, as I discovered an unattainable goal, one in which I would helplessly and fruitlessly end up pursuing until the bitter end. Trying to get her to pleasurably sigh, it became my white whale.

         As we’re kissing the sigh arrives, my balls descend and I feel manly once more. It’s sad that I would place so much emphasis on such a trivial thing but that’s life. It’s trivial. There are moments of greatness and colossal disasters, sure, but to me, it’s the little things, like a subconscious vocalization of pleasure. If you want to base your whole life on larger, more triumphant moments, good for you, no one can say you’re wrong. Weddings, births of a child, college graduation, these are all important and in a lot ways cornerstones of life. However life itself is small, it’s a collaboration of slivers of time. So if you can lose yourself in a smile, a speckle in an eye or even just a scene in a shitty movie, I think you’re better off. Seeing as how life is filled with nothing but these moments, seconds that can last a lifetime.

         As the kissing comes to a halt, Heather looks up at me and says “Was that really us?” I answer “What do you mean?” She smiles, buries her face into my chest and replies “You know what I mean.”  I knew what she meant but this woman is full of loaded questions. I’ve learned to speak freely and without hesitation when I am the one sparking the conversation. However, when she starts with a question I’m now well aware that it’s leading to something.  Instead of replying I roll her onto her back and begin kissing her once more. The placement of our lips feeling so right, I relax and sink into her, burying my face in her armpit. She makes a half-assed attempt to free her arm and says “Not in my armpit. Come on.” Playfully I bury my face even more and reply “I love it here. I could live here.” “Ugh” she lets out and pulls her arm free. “You’re so fucking weird.” She whispers as she rolls over, putting her ass up against me. “But I like It.” she proclaims as she fights with the sheets and snuggles closer for a more comfortable position. I inch up to her as much as close humanly possible and wrap my arms around her, simultaneously shaking my head about as to not get as much of her hair in face as possible. Once we both settle in the synchronization begins, our bodies tucked together as one, breathing in unison, I begin to feel a calmness permeate throughout the room. It feels as if the stars are currently aligned, if only for now and only for us, the universe is demonstrating its power before an audience of one. I rest my head on her pillow with my face flush against her neck and take an overwhelming breath. Half asleep and with a playful sincerity she says “What are you doing? Go to bed.”  “I’m trying to inhale a little bit of normalcy.” I say. She picks her head up and leers over her shoulder at me and responds “I’m not normal”, before returning back to her previous angelic state.

         Now asleep, she’s not so angelic. Her limbs thrash about like that of a drunk chick in a fight. Normally raspy and oddly appealing, her only voice now is that of a brutal snore. I now find myself, thinking like myself as panic and fear sets in. Doubt grows within me, along with a whirlwind of darkness and chaos. Who is she? Who am I? Can two people so naturally distant force an acceptable amount of closeness? Is it possible? Is it right? Should things in such a seemingly peaceful moment feel so forced. Is any of this how I really feel or am I just reverting back to the world that I know? The world that I hate and loath but am so accustomed to, camouflaged amongst the loneness. If I knew any of these answers I wouldn’t be asking them. They’re rhetorical and yet, so fucking comforting. The question is, what’s more comforting, her or despair and I waiver unwillingly and all too naturally when confronted with this dilemma. Is it really her that I like or is it the self-escape that calls to me?

         I remove my arm slowly from her and retreat back to whence I came, my side of the bed. With insomnia as a permanent fixture in my life and now Heathers snoring added to the equation, I doubt sleeping is a realistic goal. I sit starring out into the darkness, long enough for my eyes to adjust and the seldom seen world of the night to become visible. My eyes roam, searching for answers in the dark. Eventually they settle on one of my many framed movie posters, all of which are romantic in nature and they taunt me on a daily basis. Its ironic how someone who is so intrigued by and in awe of romance could be so fucking foreign to it. Although, I guess we inherently fear and respect what we don’t understand. I don’t know. This like so many things eludes me. Fuck it; I’m up, might as well go for a smoke.