Tuesday, December 30, 2014
It was my birthday yesterday. Only three people called me to wish me a day I no longer care about. Its a day. Sure, I won't mind someone else remembering this day for me by giving me a present I don't need or want. In other words, it is just another day. And it wasn't a pretty one either. It was dark and cloudy. I had to baby sit my niece and nephew since their parents were at work. My niece wasn't particularly well so everything I did for her was wrong and punctuated by a tantrum. I think of myself as a fairly calm person, especially around kids. But this belief was knocked over with a feather yesterday. I screamed louder than her in the hope she will realize who the boss is. But her voice chords are nothing to be trifled with. She was in full form. The combination of guttural screaming and big fat tears was too much for me. I caved. I brought my voice down a few decibels along while adding a new topic for distraction--an imagined cat that sneaks into the house and uses the computer upstairs! When the mother arrived from work, I was ready to scream or tear something to shreds. It was a moment of epiphany. I don't have kids because somewhere deep down I never really wanted them. I can handle them to a point--feed them, tell them to switch off the TV once the limit is reached, make pancakes or anything else their palate desires, play their crazy games, sketch, and even take an inadvertent punch to the gut. But beyond that the onerous task of building them into individuals and imagining their future through a set of mind-boggling tasks is beyond my pale. I haven't figured my own future trajectories, my own desires. To sublimate them for a child's sake has to be jarring. I can see my sister-in-law struggle with the tension between her imaginations for herself versus those for her children. I can see how she is not trained to be a parent in every possible way. She didn't have a mother from whom she could have learned the practical side of nurturing. So she has been running through it wildly, bearing on books her weight of responsibility towards her children, one of whom has ADD. Her own desperation to want to be something else in this place and time given her college training figures in her antipathy towards her son's diagnosis. If she could, she could have found a way to enter his mind, set up shop, and guide him through his academic years. But she hasn't found such a way. So she shoots words at him--words that are a combination of advice, anger, projected desires, blackened desires, unrequited needs, helplessness as parent, confusion over destiny's unexpected and unwelcome trajectory, bafflement that the child is hers, guilt, surrealism, psychedelic realities. I despair about my chronic singleness but this mis-en-sean puts all into perspective. It still doesn't take away the despair of being alone. But I feel encouraged to take care of myself since I am all I have right now. I can certainly take care of me--the me I have neglected in all my relationships--putting others before me, my wants, desires, dignity. I can't neglect her anymore. Anymore and she will be no more. Like Joplin, I will not compromise on myself---I am all I have got. Every day I feel strength in my decision to end my last relationship. Without the muddy emotions, I can see the impracticality of us and the emotional tsunami I could have wrought on myself if I had stayed. Right now I can recover, rebuild, rejuvenate. Another year, I would still be despairing, destroyed, and lifeless. I am not that kind of weak. I will take my chances at being alone and maybe even happy, even though sometimes it will suck so much that I would want to die. But living right now is the only option and hell, I kind of like myself more and more. I would like to fall in love too---with me, too.
Friday, December 26, 2014
I sent him two texts after we broke up. One, "Does it get better?" and two, "OMG--I really miss you." His response was "Sorry, don't feel like communicating right now. I don't want to say anything that I might regret later." I finished the conversation with, "Sorry to check in. Be well."
My last text to him was "Happy Hanukkah" to which he replied "Thank you!"
On December 22nd, I became Alice, slipping down the rabbit hole into a burst of nostalgia about us. Now that the break up was final, I could only remember the good. The bad and the ugly needed serious regurgitation so these remained at the edges of memory, almost disappearing in the wake of all the possibilities of a love that he had spun around me with his unrelenting intimacy everyday we were together. I could only remember how consistently randomly he loved me. We would often lie in bed in the afternoon, listening to his scratchy sunday blues, kissing, groping, making out for endless time. I was a girl again, asking him, the boy, to just love me like I have never been loved before. He revered my brown skin, my bald pussy, my small tits, my black hair, my sex-drunk eyes, my fat lower lip like he had been waiting for this combination all his life. And he would make me come just with his mouth like every sinew in my body was going to burst like blood in a clotted vein. My body hummed from the remembrances and then I burst out crying. That was not a good day. My heart broke all over again. By night time my eyes had swelled like a broken finger. I still couldn't stop the tears. I had convinced myself that I would never ever find a man who could make me feel like the last woman standing. And what made the tears fall incessantly was how callously he took it all away, making us a farce, a dallying point from which there were many exits he could take and he did. He could go kiss a random girl in a bar during the time we were temporarily broken up yet make it seem like it was nothing. To me, it was still betrayal, playing out like a broken, scratchy record. But I remained desperate for his sex godliness. For in the time he ravished me with his tongue and his words, I could imagine a love of the newsworthy kind--you know the one where the significant other dies twenty minutes after the one, being together 40 years since the first time they saw each other. Maybe I am the tragic queen of movies that produced such everlasting love. I still believe that the one I am with is the one, not someone who doesn't exist primarily because he can't. There is no perfect man only one you consider as one because he rocks your world in so many small ways. He rocked mine in one big way--sex. Of course now I know that he has trained himself very well to be this good in bed. He once gave a girl in high school a 4 hour orgasm by the sheer magic of his tongue! I believed him. For he gave me one too. He is still that good 30 years late. The man is a sensual monster. And I was his ensnared addict. What made it even worse was that we could talk. We thought of courses to teach together. He encouraged me to finish my first romance novel and I did the same for his first graphic novel. I felt I could talk to him about anything. I hid nothing. I didn't pretend to make small talk. I talked about everything as if he was my therapist. And like a good therapist he listened good. He said he respected me for all the brave choices I made in life. He even edited my academic paper and took three hours to do so! He felt like gold. I wanted him to be the gold he shone like. And he was wasn't. So you try to move on. But the problem is not that you will never be able to move on (or at least you think you might not), the problem is living the nightmare--for not being prepared for the knife in the back even as you are orgasming. How do I resolve the insurmountable angst of remembering his beautifully angled, semi-burred face, shaded by his choicest hat with the knowledge that he betrayed me every chance he got, knowingly or unknowingly doesn't matter. Looking at him looking at me with those puppy eyes you would think you were all he ever wanted. But knowing that the two loves of his life still crossed his mind while he was wooing me, that he betrayed me with random dates and bar kisses every chance he got, that he disrespected me and my family with his betrayal, that he never betrayed ones he loved (so he didn't love me), that he never pursued me after any of the three break-ups like he did the loves of his life (one for three years after the break up) made the pain worse. I can deal with indifference because the separation is there to see, acknowledge, and move on eventually. But desperate intimacy with dangerous callousness makes both unreal and therefore unbelievable. I still fail to understand how intimacy still manages to trump the callousness in memory--because I want to believe that I was loved? That I could finally imagine that my love story can be complete? Or is this simply about denial? That maybe my love story can never be. Maybe I am not meant to find that one in this life time. That this lifetime is laboring to get there in another.
My last text to him was "Happy Hanukkah" to which he replied "Thank you!"
On December 22nd, I became Alice, slipping down the rabbit hole into a burst of nostalgia about us. Now that the break up was final, I could only remember the good. The bad and the ugly needed serious regurgitation so these remained at the edges of memory, almost disappearing in the wake of all the possibilities of a love that he had spun around me with his unrelenting intimacy everyday we were together. I could only remember how consistently randomly he loved me. We would often lie in bed in the afternoon, listening to his scratchy sunday blues, kissing, groping, making out for endless time. I was a girl again, asking him, the boy, to just love me like I have never been loved before. He revered my brown skin, my bald pussy, my small tits, my black hair, my sex-drunk eyes, my fat lower lip like he had been waiting for this combination all his life. And he would make me come just with his mouth like every sinew in my body was going to burst like blood in a clotted vein. My body hummed from the remembrances and then I burst out crying. That was not a good day. My heart broke all over again. By night time my eyes had swelled like a broken finger. I still couldn't stop the tears. I had convinced myself that I would never ever find a man who could make me feel like the last woman standing. And what made the tears fall incessantly was how callously he took it all away, making us a farce, a dallying point from which there were many exits he could take and he did. He could go kiss a random girl in a bar during the time we were temporarily broken up yet make it seem like it was nothing. To me, it was still betrayal, playing out like a broken, scratchy record. But I remained desperate for his sex godliness. For in the time he ravished me with his tongue and his words, I could imagine a love of the newsworthy kind--you know the one where the significant other dies twenty minutes after the one, being together 40 years since the first time they saw each other. Maybe I am the tragic queen of movies that produced such everlasting love. I still believe that the one I am with is the one, not someone who doesn't exist primarily because he can't. There is no perfect man only one you consider as one because he rocks your world in so many small ways. He rocked mine in one big way--sex. Of course now I know that he has trained himself very well to be this good in bed. He once gave a girl in high school a 4 hour orgasm by the sheer magic of his tongue! I believed him. For he gave me one too. He is still that good 30 years late. The man is a sensual monster. And I was his ensnared addict. What made it even worse was that we could talk. We thought of courses to teach together. He encouraged me to finish my first romance novel and I did the same for his first graphic novel. I felt I could talk to him about anything. I hid nothing. I didn't pretend to make small talk. I talked about everything as if he was my therapist. And like a good therapist he listened good. He said he respected me for all the brave choices I made in life. He even edited my academic paper and took three hours to do so! He felt like gold. I wanted him to be the gold he shone like. And he was wasn't. So you try to move on. But the problem is not that you will never be able to move on (or at least you think you might not), the problem is living the nightmare--for not being prepared for the knife in the back even as you are orgasming. How do I resolve the insurmountable angst of remembering his beautifully angled, semi-burred face, shaded by his choicest hat with the knowledge that he betrayed me every chance he got, knowingly or unknowingly doesn't matter. Looking at him looking at me with those puppy eyes you would think you were all he ever wanted. But knowing that the two loves of his life still crossed his mind while he was wooing me, that he betrayed me with random dates and bar kisses every chance he got, that he disrespected me and my family with his betrayal, that he never betrayed ones he loved (so he didn't love me), that he never pursued me after any of the three break-ups like he did the loves of his life (one for three years after the break up) made the pain worse. I can deal with indifference because the separation is there to see, acknowledge, and move on eventually. But desperate intimacy with dangerous callousness makes both unreal and therefore unbelievable. I still fail to understand how intimacy still manages to trump the callousness in memory--because I want to believe that I was loved? That I could finally imagine that my love story can be complete? Or is this simply about denial? That maybe my love story can never be. Maybe I am not meant to find that one in this life time. That this lifetime is laboring to get there in another.
Tuesday, December 9, 2014
I did it. I finally told my latest ex to go find himself! I cried but it was a cry where your heart is not breaking--it is just a manifestation of sadness that you ought to be feeling for a recurring death of a dead relationship. I then wiped away my tears and did some laundry. Relief is all I felt beneath the sad. That was good. If I didn't feel that I couldn't survive a third breakup. I just wouldn't. Now for the precursor: He bought me two tickets to Turkuaz, a Brooklyn band that he loved. They were playing at the Music Hall of Williamsburg on a Saturday night. Finally! We had no social outings since we started dating. I never asked and because I never did he didn't make the effort. I couldn't ask--it was not for me to ask anything of him. But it was incumbent on him to do without being asked. I knew he wouldn't because as per his admission he was cheap. Once he asked me for $5 as my portion of the grocery he was buying for us! I knew then that he wasn't the one. But he was sexually so persuasive that I was on instant forget every time his cheapness reared. So here we were at a concert that he finally paid for. It was glorious. It was painfully sad too. Every time I looked at him in the middle of a song, him tapping my left bum to the music, or petting my hair or kissing my forehead, I wanted to cry and laugh at the same time. I knew we were going to be done sooner than later. But I so desperately wanted my isle of romance, my frozen bit of desire, that I played along. It was my memory to hold and cherish long after he and I were gone, done, removed from each other's breaths. Like I said, there was happiness but no guttural joy in the moment. So bitter-sweet. I bought him a beer as if to pay my part in our performance. He asked me not to leave him. But he knew and I knew that leave each other we must. I could have lived with his friendship, his sexpertise was anyway to die for (definitely commitment worthy), his infinite gentleness, his child-like madness, his mad cooking skills, his patience to listen, learn, and pacify but for that betrayal. If only he had not betrayed me in January by going out on two dates without breaking off with me and while I was away soaking in his love. And the worst irony is me struggling to erase the betrayal so I could focus on his other qualities--knowing well that once trust is gone, it doesn't return. If I could have erased that moved by sheer intellectual exercise I would have. But my emotions were stuck on that moment. They couldn't eject, only to burn in the fire. Finally, the betrayal did us in. I couldn't believe him for anything he did after. He insisted that he loved me. I even wanted to believe him. I knew I didn't because my vagina refused to clench anymore. Every time he called me "baby" early on in our relationship, my vagina was a weeping tap. Now, nothing. And then he qualified--he loved me as one would a dear, dear friend, though he still felt "tugs" to his heart when he was around me. Tugs? Tugs? What the fuck, is what came to mind. I supported your unemployed ass by bringing you jaunts that paid! You stayed for free (no, he didn't even pay for groceries) at my brother's for nine days last December and your thank you was to betray his only sister after!
So my mind finally got my heart to shut down its pleadings and desperations and think of future--if I wanted to be with someone who had in just that one time shown me he couldn't be trusted. If he had never betrayed someone he loved before, then he didn't love me for he betrayed me. That was it. This is a fact. There is no post-modern analysis of this that will reveal something new, something to keep and feel protected by. I finally let go. I do love him. He showed me such incredible kindness as a man that no man in my life ever had. But he had shown me cruelty in the way he betrayed me and my family that no man every had. So I was at ground zero with him. A giant hole had gobbled us. We didn't exist anymore. I always knew that but now I came to terms with it. Maybe I am meant to be alone in my life. There is probably a plan for me that doesn't include having a man. Maybe I should just focus on making lots of money and drinking lots of good, young, red wine. Yes, that's the plan, for now.
So my mind finally got my heart to shut down its pleadings and desperations and think of future--if I wanted to be with someone who had in just that one time shown me he couldn't be trusted. If he had never betrayed someone he loved before, then he didn't love me for he betrayed me. That was it. This is a fact. There is no post-modern analysis of this that will reveal something new, something to keep and feel protected by. I finally let go. I do love him. He showed me such incredible kindness as a man that no man in my life ever had. But he had shown me cruelty in the way he betrayed me and my family that no man every had. So I was at ground zero with him. A giant hole had gobbled us. We didn't exist anymore. I always knew that but now I came to terms with it. Maybe I am meant to be alone in my life. There is probably a plan for me that doesn't include having a man. Maybe I should just focus on making lots of money and drinking lots of good, young, red wine. Yes, that's the plan, for now.
Friday, November 28, 2014
Yesterday was Thanksgiving. I have nothing this year to thank for except my family. But I am thankful for them everyday. Thanksgiving is no different. My ex-boyfriend (no, not the one I have been planning to break up with yet haven't so far. That is another blog not this one) invited me over for a Thanksgiving dinner. Two lonely exies (I just coined that) on a family day tried to recreate a nonexistent togetherness. I accepted in a text message. I promised to bring butternut squash, an onion, dried cranberries, and two croissants. A traditional side-dish is all I offered. He accepted via text message. I reached just before 5 p.m. His apartment is three avenues from the 1 train station. Not a very pleasant walk on a chilly evening. But a good walk to drum up a hunger for good food. I had forgotten what a clean and organized man he is--just like I am. He had the table set. The appetizer plate was ready with a combination of figs, Manchengo cheese, walnuts, pieces of sour dough bread, and prosciutto slices. He had opened a bottle of italian wine that tasted and ran like silk on the tongue. Sauteed brussel sprouts and mushrooms glistened on the plate wrapped in cling foil. There was what looked like kale salad in another bowl. I was impressed. From my time with him, he cooked all but once--breakfast for me on the day I was leaving for New Jersey to start my first job. For the next 10 years, I think I prevented him from getting anywhere near the kitchen. I over eagerly took care of everything. Rarely making it incumbent on him to show me he cared about my gastronomical desires. I was a good Indian girl, quite like her mother--always ready, always prepared, and always eager to please "her" man. I was also that girl who resented lack of reciprocity even as she blocked its passage to her. All that prepared, beautifully presented food made me realize a problem called "me."
We chatted, we ate, we drank, we watched the Thanksgiving football games. It was an easy 4 hours on a Thursday evening. And then he said he got me something. What?!! Why? He had recently been to Istanbul. He had sent me pictures of Sophia Hajia and the blue mosque by night. He knew I would appreciate it all. I did. He knew. I was pleased that he knew. I got the most beautiful pashmina stole with a silver pendant of the "evil eye" or the "lucky eye" also a refrigerator magnet. This was the evil eye year. I needed an evil eye to absorb all the negative energy surrounding me. And my ex found me exactly that. He understood my pain and he soothed it. Irony. He ignored my pain all the time I was with him. He didn't care whether I lived or didn't. He didn't want to appear vulnerable in his exhibition of emotion for me, his only family here. Now that I wasn't family but someone he knew who didn't live in his home, I was once again precious, deserving of consideration. Irony. For the first time in the last two year since our break up, I didn't feel sad. I was happy to receive. I wasn't elated either. I was just happy to receive. Reciprocity happened, finally. And this time I took as if I was deserving of it.
Before leaving, he cut me a piece of his pumpkin pie and lay of dollop of ice cream, vanilla, atop it. He knows I like sweet and vanilla is kind of a favorite flavor. When you live for that long with someone, even when you are not paying attention you are paying attention. He was paying attention. It was plain to see now. I took my leave. He hugged me like he never had. Tight and close. And then he asked me if I had everything, if I forgot something. I had always asked him this as he left the house early mornings on his way to work. That evening, he asked me back. Reciprocity is a strange thing. It appears when least expected or at least when you stop expecting. You let it go. As soon as I let go, there it was. And there he was--my ex, standing at his door, seeing me off like he didn't want to, asking me to see him before we both left for her winter holidays to Austin and Toronto respectively.
My cousin had bought me this short tunic from Ghana. It was bright and happy. I wore it tonight for him for the first time. It brought me happy. I plan to wear it more often.
We chatted, we ate, we drank, we watched the Thanksgiving football games. It was an easy 4 hours on a Thursday evening. And then he said he got me something. What?!! Why? He had recently been to Istanbul. He had sent me pictures of Sophia Hajia and the blue mosque by night. He knew I would appreciate it all. I did. He knew. I was pleased that he knew. I got the most beautiful pashmina stole with a silver pendant of the "evil eye" or the "lucky eye" also a refrigerator magnet. This was the evil eye year. I needed an evil eye to absorb all the negative energy surrounding me. And my ex found me exactly that. He understood my pain and he soothed it. Irony. He ignored my pain all the time I was with him. He didn't care whether I lived or didn't. He didn't want to appear vulnerable in his exhibition of emotion for me, his only family here. Now that I wasn't family but someone he knew who didn't live in his home, I was once again precious, deserving of consideration. Irony. For the first time in the last two year since our break up, I didn't feel sad. I was happy to receive. I wasn't elated either. I was just happy to receive. Reciprocity happened, finally. And this time I took as if I was deserving of it.
Before leaving, he cut me a piece of his pumpkin pie and lay of dollop of ice cream, vanilla, atop it. He knows I like sweet and vanilla is kind of a favorite flavor. When you live for that long with someone, even when you are not paying attention you are paying attention. He was paying attention. It was plain to see now. I took my leave. He hugged me like he never had. Tight and close. And then he asked me if I had everything, if I forgot something. I had always asked him this as he left the house early mornings on his way to work. That evening, he asked me back. Reciprocity is a strange thing. It appears when least expected or at least when you stop expecting. You let it go. As soon as I let go, there it was. And there he was--my ex, standing at his door, seeing me off like he didn't want to, asking me to see him before we both left for her winter holidays to Austin and Toronto respectively.
My cousin had bought me this short tunic from Ghana. It was bright and happy. I wore it tonight for him for the first time. It brought me happy. I plan to wear it more often.
Friday, November 14, 2014
My boyfriend betrayed me. I am still with him.
Let me explain.
I met my short, white, animated-personified, jewish boyfriend on Okcupid. Ok, he found me. In his first email to me, he said, "wow, your personal profile is so warm" but the reason he decided to write was because I didn't want kids. Right. It had nothing to do with my pretty face that got his dick's instant attention. I gave him that knowing that he might not write again if I was short and curt in my reply. He replied. And each time he got my attention. He wasn't trying too hard or seemingly getting impatient to see me in person so he could do the penis test following which he could stay or vamoose. Then one day he said, he loved Ganesh--the pot-bellied, elephant-nosed Hindu god. I was in. I bought him a Ganesh for our first meeting. His first kiss was a thank you but it had nothing to do with gratitude. It was predatory. It pulled at my vagina. turning it into knots like the challah bread. There was fire here waiting to be lighted. We sat on bench in Central Park that first evening. I looked at him and without a thought called him beautiful. He sidled as close to me as was possible. I reached to touch his scruffy chin. He twitched like a happy dog. When I stopped because the angle of the my wrist was getting stressed, he protested like a happy dog who wanted his pleasure to continue. At the train station, he took my face in his hand and called me pretty, softly, gently, imperceptibly. My vagina squeezed again. And I simply nodded before walking away from him.
This is how it began. But it got better. I mean the sex got better and better and better and better. We didn't copulate. We made love, rather he made love. He lighted a candle. He put on Rufus Wainright's Imaginary Love. He went down on me like it was his only source of water in a desert--for straight four hours. He said he had only done it once before--in school while on acid. This it time he was high on my eyes. I loved that he loved sex as much as I did. I loved that he called himself post-orgasmic or that he enjoyed me the best when I was gushing like a geyser during my period. I didn't understand how a guy didn't come during our marathons was okay with the fact that all the pleasure was mine! I was asked not to be guilty about the inequality of pleasure in inverse. I tried. I accepted, delightedly. Then I demanded it and he gave every time with such boy-like pleasure it left me teary-eyed, at the brink of love.
He came to Austin during the December break. He stayed with my family for 10 days. He cooked dal and squash soup to die for. Except for my brother, everyone else liked him. On new year's eve, I wrote in my note: I hope he is my "one," please let him my one. I prayed.
He left for NYC on January 2. On January 6, his email suddenly lay miraculously open before me. Do not ask how or how. The inbox was open. I couldn't help but do a cursory look. There it was. An email to Bachelorette.com outlining his resume and a conversation that said "betrayal."
My hands shook, my mind scrambled, my vagina sewed shut. I called him to call him out. I ended it. Just like that my one had become someone. What followed was endless minutes of deconstructing him and reconstructing him as a ruthless con-artist. While everyone tried to dismiss him as a blip on my romantic radar, I had no words. I had nothing to defend him with. He led me with nothing. One moment he was going down on me twice a day for 4 hours each and the next I had become an ex--just like that. I had mixed his lust for me as love. He hadn't. He couldn't taste me enough and then he had enough.
I came back from Austin, sat on my bed and cried like my heart had finally broken into a million pieces.
So how am I still with him? Am I being serious? Seriously? Yes, seriously. Next weekend, I am going to end it. I have needed his lust to carry me through my break-up with him. I healed from his betrayal while having him go down on me like he had never left my crotch. I reeled him in knowing he was a man and as a man was weak if I just knew how to play him to retain my sanity. I am sane now. I know I am what I got. If I keep him in my life, I will forever look over my shoulder waiting for the next time he blind sides me. And I know he will. I will suspect it even if he doesn't, especially if his dick falls off his curly mass of hair. This is no way to live. It is a sure way to die. And I'd like to live a bit longer. Not in the hope that he changes or I find someone else. I have no option. He gave me no option. I had to come back to me. My only home.
Let me explain.
I met my short, white, animated-personified, jewish boyfriend on Okcupid. Ok, he found me. In his first email to me, he said, "wow, your personal profile is so warm" but the reason he decided to write was because I didn't want kids. Right. It had nothing to do with my pretty face that got his dick's instant attention. I gave him that knowing that he might not write again if I was short and curt in my reply. He replied. And each time he got my attention. He wasn't trying too hard or seemingly getting impatient to see me in person so he could do the penis test following which he could stay or vamoose. Then one day he said, he loved Ganesh--the pot-bellied, elephant-nosed Hindu god. I was in. I bought him a Ganesh for our first meeting. His first kiss was a thank you but it had nothing to do with gratitude. It was predatory. It pulled at my vagina. turning it into knots like the challah bread. There was fire here waiting to be lighted. We sat on bench in Central Park that first evening. I looked at him and without a thought called him beautiful. He sidled as close to me as was possible. I reached to touch his scruffy chin. He twitched like a happy dog. When I stopped because the angle of the my wrist was getting stressed, he protested like a happy dog who wanted his pleasure to continue. At the train station, he took my face in his hand and called me pretty, softly, gently, imperceptibly. My vagina squeezed again. And I simply nodded before walking away from him.
This is how it began. But it got better. I mean the sex got better and better and better and better. We didn't copulate. We made love, rather he made love. He lighted a candle. He put on Rufus Wainright's Imaginary Love. He went down on me like it was his only source of water in a desert--for straight four hours. He said he had only done it once before--in school while on acid. This it time he was high on my eyes. I loved that he loved sex as much as I did. I loved that he called himself post-orgasmic or that he enjoyed me the best when I was gushing like a geyser during my period. I didn't understand how a guy didn't come during our marathons was okay with the fact that all the pleasure was mine! I was asked not to be guilty about the inequality of pleasure in inverse. I tried. I accepted, delightedly. Then I demanded it and he gave every time with such boy-like pleasure it left me teary-eyed, at the brink of love.
He came to Austin during the December break. He stayed with my family for 10 days. He cooked dal and squash soup to die for. Except for my brother, everyone else liked him. On new year's eve, I wrote in my note: I hope he is my "one," please let him my one. I prayed.
He left for NYC on January 2. On January 6, his email suddenly lay miraculously open before me. Do not ask how or how. The inbox was open. I couldn't help but do a cursory look. There it was. An email to Bachelorette.com outlining his resume and a conversation that said "betrayal."
My hands shook, my mind scrambled, my vagina sewed shut. I called him to call him out. I ended it. Just like that my one had become someone. What followed was endless minutes of deconstructing him and reconstructing him as a ruthless con-artist. While everyone tried to dismiss him as a blip on my romantic radar, I had no words. I had nothing to defend him with. He led me with nothing. One moment he was going down on me twice a day for 4 hours each and the next I had become an ex--just like that. I had mixed his lust for me as love. He hadn't. He couldn't taste me enough and then he had enough.
I came back from Austin, sat on my bed and cried like my heart had finally broken into a million pieces.
So how am I still with him? Am I being serious? Seriously? Yes, seriously. Next weekend, I am going to end it. I have needed his lust to carry me through my break-up with him. I healed from his betrayal while having him go down on me like he had never left my crotch. I reeled him in knowing he was a man and as a man was weak if I just knew how to play him to retain my sanity. I am sane now. I know I am what I got. If I keep him in my life, I will forever look over my shoulder waiting for the next time he blind sides me. And I know he will. I will suspect it even if he doesn't, especially if his dick falls off his curly mass of hair. This is no way to live. It is a sure way to die. And I'd like to live a bit longer. Not in the hope that he changes or I find someone else. I have no option. He gave me no option. I had to come back to me. My only home.
Sunday, November 9, 2014
I was out with my ex last evening. I am alone in NYC and he is the closest to being the only familiar face in this lonely city. He is also generous. He buys me dinner without asking me to pay the tip as my part of the deal. I like that because I am generous too. We always have the strangest conversation--it skids from one topic to another--one moment we are talking about Djnago Unchained, its unflinching look at complicity in racism, and the next moment we are bringing down a friend who considers himself a white man underneath the brown skin, quite unflinchingly. We found ourselves Totto Ramen, a fast-food Japanese eatery, after a class of red Malbec and fennel bread (he got me bread so I wouldn't have to drink my wine empty, he remembered!). Over a bowl of soup with ramen noodles drenched in mushroom granata infused chicken broth, alongside thin chicken pieces and thin slices of green onions, I decided to bring up his cruelty towards me while we were in a marriage like dating situation. He protested but didn't snap as he always did when he disagreed with me while in our relationship. I am brave now. I am not with him. Now I can say things to him that I couldn't before. Now, I don't care about repercussions. I get to go to my home after the dinner not to his bed or his space. There is something powerful about this material fact. And then I asked him---"when will "good" become "fabulous" in your vocabulary?" He didn't know. But he said--"I am one of the 20% who are optimistic; I believe tomorrow is going to be better than today." Okaaay. I am not. I told him. I also told him that I hope never to find my soul-mate. He doesn't exist. Never did. So I just have to find a new direction--what I want to do with my life without having to wait for the one since there isn't one. His eyes were blank. He didn't quite know what to make of me. How can you be in America, in NYC and be pessimistic? You can create your happiness here. You are never lonely here even if you are alone. Here, I was not playing the psychological game. In my hand was a virtual pin pulling pricks into the invisible bubble most Indian "brown sahibs" carry like a child in this white colony. I burst mine yesterday.
I then told him what/ who he is looking to be with--a white woman with blond hair, and an English accent who wears spikes that raises her 5'10'' height to 6". But the moment he brings her home and they sit on the couch, she becomes a person who doesn't like TV or sports. She doesn't understand the madness he surrounds himself with every day. Therein lies trouble. They will already not make it. He may go down on her or hold her hand in public because that is what boyfriends with white girlfriends do, but if she wants to talk at 8:00 a.m. when Manchester United is playing, she is half way out in her underwear no less. Yes, I played his therapist and got a dinner in return. Oh, and he did say--maybe if we are single at the end of the next decade, we could . . . ?
I knew my bother was right--women have all the power. I am finally not being a martyr.
I then told him what/ who he is looking to be with--a white woman with blond hair, and an English accent who wears spikes that raises her 5'10'' height to 6". But the moment he brings her home and they sit on the couch, she becomes a person who doesn't like TV or sports. She doesn't understand the madness he surrounds himself with every day. Therein lies trouble. They will already not make it. He may go down on her or hold her hand in public because that is what boyfriends with white girlfriends do, but if she wants to talk at 8:00 a.m. when Manchester United is playing, she is half way out in her underwear no less. Yes, I played his therapist and got a dinner in return. Oh, and he did say--maybe if we are single at the end of the next decade, we could . . . ?
I knew my bother was right--women have all the power. I am finally not being a martyr.
Friday, October 31, 2014
EXCERPT!! TWO---The First Time
(http://www.amazon.com/First-Time-Love-No-Book-ebook/dp/B00O4JSIWK/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1414793643&sr=8-2&keywords=the+first+time+kindle
"The rain came down as we stood there in the middle of the “do not trespass” sign called public culture and engaged our lips. And then he came to before I did. He swiped my face with his finger to acknowledge as if what just happened was real and then turned to start the scooter. I climbed behind him, balancing the now soggy pizza boxes on my lap and without another thought slipped my other arm around his waist. I felt him look down at my arm but he didn’t touch or feel. He just said, “Hold on tight, babe.” And as he made the turn towards the main road, my smile came back as did the wetness in my panties."
For me, love is the most insidious ideology. It takes, it gives, it takes again, and stops giving. Starvation is the result and slowly life stops. But it doesn't stop us, poor us, like icarus flying too close to the sun . .
Monday, October 13, 2014
EXCERPT . . . EXCERPT . . . EXCERPT!!!!!
The First Time (Love in No Time--1)
http://www.amazon.com/First-Time-Love-No-Book-ebook/
Prologue
August 31, 1996—Chanakyapuri, Delhi
I couldn’t see his face. His psychedelic helmet hid a good part of his face, except for those eyes. No, there was nothing special about those eyes. They were neither small nor big. They were regular eyes but with the blackest pupils I ever saw. They were always this shade. They never became any other shade except when he was devouring my pussy. In that armor style, gaudy helmet, I couldn’t see anything of his face. So looking at his eyes was useless. They didn’t give anything away because they couldn’t from the five hundred meters that separated us. But maybe it was the turn of the head; that angle from which you look at something or someone with that unacknowledged knowledge that they will go missing at some point in the time you are living and breathing in—that this look and that turn of the head will recede into a memory and stay there for an inordinately uncomfortable time, a disproportionate fact to that momentary moment.
I raised my right hand in a semi-goodbye. He raised his index finger in a semi-response, caught between possibly an acknowledgement and a denial. And then he was over it, the moment to say. The scooter he sat astride over came back to life, smoke plumed and gave the Delhi haze its spotted darkness. His head turned one hundred and eighty degrees. He was looking at the zigzagging traffic, trying to find a squeezable space for his scooter to merge in. My eyes followed him, till they couldn’t anymore. He was gone . . . and I was going too . . . very soon.
The First Time (Love in No Time--1)
http://www.amazon.com/First-Time-Love-No-Book-ebook/
Prologue
August 31, 1996—Chanakyapuri, Delhi
I couldn’t see his face. His psychedelic helmet hid a good part of his face, except for those eyes. No, there was nothing special about those eyes. They were neither small nor big. They were regular eyes but with the blackest pupils I ever saw. They were always this shade. They never became any other shade except when he was devouring my pussy. In that armor style, gaudy helmet, I couldn’t see anything of his face. So looking at his eyes was useless. They didn’t give anything away because they couldn’t from the five hundred meters that separated us. But maybe it was the turn of the head; that angle from which you look at something or someone with that unacknowledged knowledge that they will go missing at some point in the time you are living and breathing in—that this look and that turn of the head will recede into a memory and stay there for an inordinately uncomfortable time, a disproportionate fact to that momentary moment.
I raised my right hand in a semi-goodbye. He raised his index finger in a semi-response, caught between possibly an acknowledgement and a denial. And then he was over it, the moment to say. The scooter he sat astride over came back to life, smoke plumed and gave the Delhi haze its spotted darkness. His head turned one hundred and eighty degrees. He was looking at the zigzagging traffic, trying to find a squeezable space for his scooter to merge in. My eyes followed him, till they couldn’t anymore. He was gone . . . and I was going too . . . very soon.
Sunday, October 12, 2014
THE FIRST TIME (Love in No Time--I)
Bitsy Shar
October 2014
Kindle and Amazon:
Synopsis
He was her brother’s best friend. She was his next-door neighbor. Neither one was particularly interested in finding an Indian romantic partner.
Yet despite their differences in background, thought, and ambition, they come together in a moment of passion that ultimately sparks a cycle of frenzied desire and ruthless breakups that lasts for years.
Through it all, it is the quiet moments they share together that slowly build the fire that keeps their desire continuously burning. From riding his scooter on a rainy day and picking up pizza on the way home, to dancing at a club and eating cake at her brother’s birthday party, these ordinary events construct an intricate dance that eventually leads to an explosive climax, which will change their lives forever.
Set in Delhi, India, The First Time fans the flames of the city’s heritage of historical love stories with this fresh, fiery, and effervescent romance.
About the author
Bitsy Shar has been an avid and faithful fan of Mills and Boons romances since she was sixteen years old. As her pile of beloved, well-worn books grew, so did her curiosity about what makes a story good. This, and her passion for the city of Delhi, eventually inspired her to write her debut romance novel, The First Time.
Next in the Love in No Time Series:
“The Second Time” (set in Dubai, United Arab Emirates; Toronto, Canada; and Austin, Texas (December 2014). Desire, regret, and love build to a meteoric climax that consummates their attraction—and reveals a secret that alters their lives forever!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)