Eyes Wide Shut

This was a sex party. Make no mistake about it. Everything else was just a cover up, a warm up, a foreplay. It started with people frolicking, and it ended with people fucking. This was a story told in a first person point of view, with an intention to give readers a more intimate view of a quintessential San Francisco styled sex party, or as the politically correct term referred as a "Play Party". As per usual, everything in this story and every person are fictionalized.

Eleven-Fifteen. Arrived at a building with the street address and an iron gate. A doorman behind the gate.

I approached the iron gate. The doorman behind the gate greeted me and my companion. He asked a lot of questions before opening the door.

"Greetings. Beautiful people. I see that you are properly attired." Man in white suit greeted us. He asked if this was our first time. It was. My companion took the tickets out and showed them to the check-in crew after we were debriefed.

I had just begun to realize that my companion had on a very silky dark blue patterned shirt and a tight fitting black slacks. He looked dashingly 1960s Mad Men stylish and handsome. He was not tall, at 5'10", and slim, he looked distinguished and a bit nerdy. My six inch heel made me nearly as tall as he was.  Though I would never feel attracted to him the same way as I did with my ex, he would be a good stand-in, for the evening. God I missed my ex. I missed him irrationally, and I knew he'd genuinely like this. No one was as kinky as he was. And I loved him for that. I loved him like I had never loved before. And when it ended all I could do was cry, for days and weeks. Until my tears dried out, and my heart torn apart. How could he leave me? Why wouldn't he want to be with me? Why did he lie to me? I couldn't figure out so I quit. I quit him cold turkey and I could still feel the residual effect.

This was a kinky sex party with secret code, secret greetings and secret rooms. It was the reality TV version of Eyes Wide Shut. Everything went on here, stayed here.  I had been a member since a year ago. I deeply enjoyed watching people having sex. I liked having sex in public. I liked women. I liked men. I liked BDSM. I had very little sexual boundary. I was, however, choosy about my sexual partner. I liked a certain type.

"Know your pal and stay close to your pal."
"No photos."
"No making others uncomfortable."
"Drink responsibly."

Man in white jacket read out loud the code, which was written on a poster, mounted on the wall.

"Enjoy the evening." Said the check-in lady.

Disco dance floor. Check.
People in costume. Check.
Make out room. #1. Check.
Communal bathroom. Check.
Outdoor patio. Check.
Bar. Check.
Make out room. #2. Check.
Carnival Game Room. #1. Check.
Carnival Game Room. #2. Check.

BYOB. Damn it, should have brought a bottle of red wine. Duly noted. Note to self, bring a bottle of wine next time.

My companion, I would call him C, from now on, for easier reference in this story, had brought a flask of rum. We mixed rum with coke. He treated me like a kid. I was only a decade younger but he treated me like a little girl sometimes. He gave me a weak drink mix because he said that I couldn't handle liquor.

A woman in pink tutu and glasses, short and plump, complimented my dress. It was a French designer, bought at the designer's flagship store in Paris. Silk, hand made, glittery and theatrical. I chatted with her and informed my pending departure for France. She was friendly and curious. I brought my companion forward, C smiled politely to the girl, not at least interested in her. C held my hand, afraid that I'd disappear. C did not like social settings. He took the Xanax I brought for him. He liked being indoors and did his things. He did not care for my set up but he came because he was intellectually curious about such place. He liked people could be free and do whatever what they want. He was liberal like my ex, who appreciated the fact in this part of the world, a fringe culture thrived and people could be whatever they wanted to be. C chose class and my ex, B would have dressed up in a costume and fucked me in public. C was more inhibited. But C was here and B would not be here, with me.

I walked over to the Kissing Booth. I had heard of such things. You were kissed, consensual kissing booth.  A volunteer encouraged me to participate. So I did. A woman and man began to kiss me. I liked mouth to mouth kissing. So they kissed me. It felt good to be kissed by a woman and man. Then I asked C to participate. He kissed the woman. Unwillingly. But he was a good sport about it.

A carnival game was going on. I needed to toss the ring to the dildo attached to the woman's crotch. I failed. A sandbag need to be tossed into a hole. I tossed 5 sandbags into the hole, 5 out of 5. Impressive apparently. A big prize was given to me. I took my stuffed animal into another room. A bit of BDSM action was going on. The electrical shock was quite something. I had seen them being done to women at the Public Disgrace shoot but never had it done to me until now. I was quite fond of it. I must admit that this could be my new thing.

C was not into this. I could tell. But I had to come with someone. I went to the balcony to chat with people.

A rather plump woman dressed as a green clown and a rather skinny woman dressed like a sailor came in to make out. Then they took off to another room. Soon the plump woman was bopping her head, she was giving a male clown a blow job. I wondered if I should be fatter so that I could give better blow jobs. I heard that women who were less attractive tended to be better at giving heads.  I didn't have nearly the same level of dedication. I liked it all right, I loved sucking on my ex's cock, but I liked more to be eaten out or fucked, as a general preference.

A very round bi woman with glasses started to remove her clothes. I was rather turned on by her large breasts. She looked rather comfortable naked.  I could tell this was not her first rodeo. Another woman joined her. They were intertwined. C did not find them attractive, I did.  Now the sailor woman was giving another clown a blow job inches away from me. I was wondering if C was getting any ideas. He seemed mildly amused but not turned on. I was but I had no partner to perform on so I watched.

A pretty blonde was giving a free poll dancing. A gorgeous woman was offering her pussy to a man, he was eating her out. He had a small g-string on. The woman was dressed in a lingerie outfit, with her pussy exposed. A middle age white woman, big, with unshaved pussy was riding on top of a skinny, sleepy older man. A short Indian man was joining in. I looked around, there was another couple fucking. The woman who had red hair had also an unshaved, unmanaged pussy. It was a bit of mess down there. I wondered why women don't shave or at least trim. It looked unsightly.

A colorfully dressed hostess came to the dance floor to dance. The Trashkan Marchink Band started to perform and they looked sexy, goofy and edgy. A woman spilled drink onto my silk Parisian dress.  I went over to the unisex bathroom to wash the red wine stain off. Men and women all piled into a small bathroom and everything seemed natural. I felt hot so when I got out very quickly. I went over to the patio where C was waiting for me. He was quiet and unimpressed. But he said that he was having fun. He liked fringe culture. He liked people being free so I continued my cruising.  The kissing lady was having a drag of cigarette, and I wish that I could smoke but I didn't want to ruin my dress. The white jacket man who debriefed us at the beginning was there also, though I had already forgotten about him until C told me who he was. He thought that we were a couple. C preferred to have me sitting on his lap, like a little girl and he bounced me. A very sexy woman walked towards me, "You have a lot of cuteness going on." She complimented me, and went further explaining to me why I was cute. C always thought that I was cute, and sexy. White jacket man thought C was my date, and was slightly jealous of C's hands that were now under my dress. I liked C keeping his hands busy by grabbing my butt, I was not really that interested in his cock, but I liked being touched.

In the other room, through the window I saw two people started to fuck. The green clown woman came running into the room, and lifted up her skirt, and offered her pussy to the man who was fucking another woman, he took up on her offer by jamming his cock into her exposed pussy. She giggled and fondled the other woman's breasts. That turned me on slightly. I then looked over to the other room, there were now six couples, completely naked and fucking. A couple had congregated on a day bed, the same day bed that C and I were sitting just about 10 minutes ago, and started to fuck. There were clean towels, condoms and lubs in glass bowls next to the beds.

I went back to the bar area but then C dragged me to dance floor. C wanted me to dance. I had not danced for a long time. I used to like to dance, I used to dance seductively until I got men to go home with me. But I stopped dancing. C wanted me to dance. I took a sip of rum from his flask. Then another. I was feeling tipsy, enough so that I started to dance to the disco music. C followed me. He liked to dance. He did not dance like a white man, he danced well, in his Don Draper on holiday outfit. I wished that I could find C to be more attractive, he was no doubt a very good looking man, but I was still in love with my ex. My ex who tied me up, spanked me, covered my mouth while fucking me, pissed into my pussy and my mouth, and kissed me after. The filth, the insatiable hunger for sex, fringe sex, with me, made me realize that we were all made for one person and one person only. The one person who understood us and saw us for who we were at our core, was the person we must be with. It was that simple.  Or it ought to be.

I couldn't possibly love another like I did before. My ex got under my skin, by knowing, appreciating, and enjoying sex the same way I did. He was into BDSM sex as much as I did, and I missed it.

C started to hold my face and kiss me. He held my face tight, inches away from him, so that my face was right where he wanted. He first kissed me feather light, then he kissed me harder, finally he pressed me against the wall so that I could then feel his growing cock, pressing against me, being rubbed against me, in front of everyone on the dance floor.

When I was ten I was molested on a bus going to school. It was a public bus, a grown man in his late twenties got on one stop after I did, four times a day - morning, lunch break, evening, he found me and pressed his erect penis against me,  made me feel his erect penis, and stuck his fingers inside of my virginal pussy.  I was molested for a year and no one did anything to stop this awful evil scary man, and as a result, my radar and sensors had been permanently broken. 

A TV actor showed up at this party. He looked very adorable. I recognized him from a popular show. Here no one was allowed to take photos. He was free to roam around. A gorgeous man with glasses showed up. He was a model. I recognized him in a recent print ad.

I wondered what they were doing here.  There were other places to meet women or men. But this was the only place everyone was anonymous.

C wanted to take me home. He wanted to fuck me. He was turned on by kissing me. I didn't want to go. I was comfortable among naked fucking people. This was my scene, I could be anonymous and friendly. I could be anyone here and no one would pass any judgment. Unless you violated the house rules.

I started to wonder if I should let C to fuck me.When I had sex with men in the past, I often kept my eyes open and I stared right back at them, I would be soundless as I moved on top of them to ride them in cow girl style. I looked back at them as they entered me from behind.  My quietness often made them either become self aware or it turned them on even more. I played this role well - this submissive sensual woman who was sexy and knew her place. I kept myself clean. Shaved, bathed, clean and tidy. I got aroused quickly and I stayed aroused. Men thought they were the reason that I was wet. I was wet because I enjoyed sex.  I was a human fuck machine that would be quite easily operated on,  I felt physically good when I was having sex. But, I felt nothing emotionally.

I was thinking about that loose green clown woman with robust hips and thighs, when a man entered her, she was giddy with joy and she made noises that sounded like a strangled chicken. I wanted to laugh. I thought what if I saw my ex fucking another woman, this clown woman or any other woman, would I be bothered? I realized that I wouldn't. Just like I was not bothered by C kissing another woman or knowing C was fucking another woman. I had no sense of jealousy, I simply wanted to be loved back in an honest, non-conventional, non-exclusive, sexually free way. I wanted human contact. I was just like this party, where no limits was the only limit, as long as it was done in a consensual way.

C asked me, "Would you be OK if you were fucked in front of everyone?" I answered, "Yes of course. I would be fine. I don't think I'd be inhibited." C said, "I really would not feel comfortable about it. I preferred to do it at the privacy of my home."

"Yes I know." I answered.

I had always wanted to go down on my ex in front of people. I would have liked if my ex fucked me in his animal suit, here. I thought it would be cool if he watched me being spanked by the spanking experts. I knew he'd like it. I would have liked for him to watch me going down on a woman as he fucked me silly. This would have been such a place. This would have been perfect for us to take our relationship to the next natural level. But then he had to leave.

C asked me, "Have you ever been in love? What was it like?"

"Yes. I had been. For the person I loved,  I would have died for him. I would have done anything for him. I would be fine if he was seeing others on the side. I simply wanted him to love me back and saw me consistently. I wanted him to stop lying to me. I wanted him to not just say that he loved me, but to show me that he was capable of loving me." 

My companion for the evening was asking me heavy subjects. I was always cool, collected, non-emotional and confident in front of him. I didn't know how he felt about all that, after I told him the truth. I did love before, and I'd never love him.

There was a broken-hearted little girl who had lost her innocence many years ago. She was always looking for something, something that would change the course of her life, I was not sure if she found what she was looking for, but it would not have mattered, she lost the person who would have, could have, been her soul mate.

But I did know one thing - When she arrived at this party, where no one cared to know who she was, what she was like, and where she was going, she was finally, safe and sound.

Today

I self-imposed a break. Decided not to contact him for a day. He sent an email and I didn't call him. I was used to talking to him every day. Then today at 1 PM I finally called. Just to chitchat, and he said, "How are you? What are you up to? What's new?"

I knew that he wanted to chitchat, to gauge my level of interest. To see if I was mad at him. I was not. I just wanted a break. I don't know why but my beauty sleep allowed me to be more objective about things. And less anxious. I didn't want this to end but I also did not want it to progress.

I think I love my ex. The guy who sort of awoke my feelings. I was heart broken by him. Also self-imposed. I like him. I really do. I think he's manic depressive like me. I also think that if he leaves scene it's fine too. I don't feel the anxiousness about him any more. I think he's a good man. I love him. That will never change. But I may not need to be with him.

He's toxic to me. When we are together, it's too intense. I have to stop being with him to feel normal. I don't feel the same way as I do with others.

So when I didn't talk to C, I know that he was worried. I don't think he wants me to be gone.

We did not talk long. We talked about my work, his work, and everything in between.

I asked him when he wanted me over. He said, "Whenever is convenient for you." I realized if I stopping pushing my agenda, he wanted me more. That is the case with every man. I wish that I can see my ex more. But I think he needs to be drifting in and out of my life. He's not consistent. He's who he is.

With C I just need to back up a little and then he'll want me more. I think he actually craves for companionship and I like him for who he is. So I asked, "Do you want to have dinner outside?" He said that he'll make us something.

I thought that would be fine. We will be fine. He and I. No drama. No expectations. And when things end, no one will get hurt.

I wish it's that simple with my ex. I think once you love someone, it's harder to let go.

If he says to me tomorrow, "I want you to be mine. Stop seeing others. Be with me." I would say to him back, "If you do the same. I will stop seeing all others." Fair is fair. I would be willing to be his, if he's willing to be mine.

On that note, I may want to can my therapist. She does not seem to get me. She gets upset. But I don't believe that she understands me. Or try to.

Everyone gets upset with me. I don't know why. I am who I am I don't get upset with others. I frankly can careless of what they think. I am me. I'm going to be me.

The non-relationship story

She's decided, that her heart is a very fragile thing and that to stay on the surface is the only mode of survival. She and E meet every Tuesday, every Tuesday or Thursday night they go out for dinner, a drink or both, and sometimes they have sex. It's been a year. E does not get to her but E gets her. 

E reads every post she puts on social media site and E asks her about her life and remembers everything she tells him. They have been going on for a year, on occasion, they see each other once a week, and other times, once a month. They don't make a fuss, their relationship is not complicated. They like each other. E likes her and thinks she's very sexy. They take turns paying for the bill. They talk about work and their friends. They talk about their respective spouses. E is very successful corporate guy but a hipster. E is cool, and someone whom she'd consider marry, if he  and she were both available. E does things like going to Burning Man, Lightening in A Bottle, Silent Disco and night clubs. E likes to cook and eat out. She does not love E or think about E but she and E have a great time together.

E loves to watch baseball and  is an A's fan. She says over dinner, "I like to watch a game, sometimes." E says, "Great. I'll get us some tickets. We'll see an A's game this summer or two." E looks up places for them to go and eat and play.

When she travels E writes to her or follows her on FaceBook. When she gets heart broken by other men she eats dinner with E and cries on E's shoulder. E does not know that she has many men that she date but E knows that she is with many men, platonically. E would not mind one way or another, but she knows better to stir up the pot. 

"I'm leaving again next week." She casually tells E. 

"You said that you'd stay put for the next month." He's not unhappy but just surprised.

"I can see you next week, before I go." She says.

"I leave for Lightening In a Bottle on the 11th." He has told her the dates but she forgets easily. 

"That's the start of Burning Man events." He adds.

"Sure."  She does not remember such things because she's losing her memory. 

"I'm moving." She says. 

"So soon?" He asks.

"Yes. I'm leaving this country." She's looking forward to leaving here, this continent. She's able to do that, she's worked hard enough and she's saved.

"You can visit me. There. In Burgundy." She says.

"You will learn French. You'll take on a French lover." He pictures her in a white sundress, and her hair tied back, and she's drinking a glass of chilled wine and she's speaking in French, murmuring, and she's the exotic one out, because she's got dark hair, olive skin, and she's got that smile that melts his heart. She's foreign, she's going to be foreign wherever she goes.

"Maybe. Maybe not. I don't like Frenchmen. I like Scandinavians." She says. 

That's true. E is Scandinavian. Blond, blue eyes, tall, Swedish.

"I like blond hair men with blue eyes. You know that." She squeezes his thighs, which are touching hers.

They sit in the bar area of a red hot restaurant where excellent rib eye steak is being brought over to their table.

It's a really good meal. A meal filled with good wine, great conversation and a pair of people who know what they are to each other, no drama, no complications, no sense of agony over what-does-it-mean.

"I'll come and visit you. I'll rent your place when you are not there." E says enthusiastically  E travels a lot internationally. He's her equal. In more than one ways. 

"You'd better come. Visit me. My four bedrooms and two bath house." She is now watching the TV screen where A's is playing the Cardinals.

E has traveled to many places in the world. He could have been her soul mate. If it is not for the fact that they met 15 years too late.

"There are these private spas for rent. We can meet there next time." He says to her. 

"Sure, I'd like that. But I also want to try this other restaurant. State Bird Provisions. It's hot and hard to get in. But we can try. They reserve 1/3 of the seating for walk ins. We may get lucky." She has been trying to go there for ages.

At some point in a relationship, an affair or not, people become human beings. No longer lusty, no longer intense emotions, just companionship. She does not know if they are at that stage or not, but she knows that he is always going to be there. He's nearly a decade younger but they get along just as well. When she's younger, she's never pictured herself dating anyone younger than she. At her midlife, she's starting to realize that age is just a number. When you feel in sync with someone you are in sync.

A year has passed. This is a man she has always turned to when things are not always alright. This is a man who is going to stay in her life. 

For better or for worse. He' s here to stay. 

This is not a love story, but as we all know, love stories are short lived and overrated.

Ocean Beach, Sunset and 47th and Taraval

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The Other Woman and the Other Man

He had another woman whom he saw regularly, semi-regularly, I supposed.

I had asked about it when I was away, he asked me, “Are you jealous?”

I answered, a little too quickly, “No.”

I was not planning to be someone’s girlfriend. When I was young, I was really hoping to become SOMEONE’S GIRLFRIEND. I tried to retain relationships and no one seemed to want to be with me, for the long term, and I thought I’d never marry.

Now I was older. Technically speaking, I was not supposed to develop long term relationships. But it would appear he wanted to keep me, for sometime, for a while, at least.

I told him that it was OK, once he told me that she was visiting, and asked me not to call during that time. I didn’t need to know that. Since then I knew that she visited, she enjoyed being the OTHER WOMAN, as it turned out. They had been fucking when he was with his other woman, the steady girlfriend, he had, just before me. She did not know about me. he never told her about me. I had my toothbrush and my toiletries in his place. He would put them away when I was not there, so not to distract the other woman, to invite questions, and to hide the fact that I existed in his life. He was terribly afraid of getting too involved with me, so he put away evidence of my existence. I found that to be charming.

I spent my youth worried about men not wanting to be with me; at my midlife, I began to have men worried about getting too attached to me.

I saw him once a week, or just about. He set aside his weekend for me. I was always the highlight of his week. I didn't sleep well with him. I fell asleep in his arms but then I'd wake up sick. I never slept well with men. I preferred my own bed. I preferred to fuck, and then leave. But with him I had to stay because we spent hours fucking. It was hours before we ended our act. I'd look at the clock mounted in the ceiling. And hours would pass before we'd end our sexession (Sexession: Sex Session). Finally I had decided to leave a few things in his place so I did not have to pack them each time. He stored them for me. He did not want her to find out and make a fuss.  

No one wanted to know that they were not the only one, except me. I wanted to know so that I could regulate my feelings, to not fall in love; or remind myself why he was not worthy my love.

I missed the feeling of being in love.

I really missed it. I was lost without it.

So I wanted him to fall for me, eventually. Because I wanted to hear him say, “I miss you. I want to be with you. I want you to be mine. I love you.”

Then I could turn my back on him, and walk away.

That’s what you did when your heart was broken by others. You got into the habit of breaking other hearts, to compensate for your loss.

And sometimes I could tell there were genuine emotions there. He started to miss me and care about me. And one day I wondered if he’ll fall for me. I hope it would be soon.

Because part of me wanted to hit the ejection button, and I’d shoot up into the sky, and then I’d free fall, and think I’d die. I’ll be free falling and I’d finally be able to cry, and then just before I thought I’d break into ten millions of pieces, the parachutes would open; I would be flying again, this time, gracefully, through a calm descend, I’d eventually arrive at a meadow, and there you’d be waiting.

You, the person whom I had fallen once before, you were there to receive me. You’d be frail and gray and you’d tell me, “I’ve been waiting for you, all this time, all along. We belong. Be with me, until the end.”

At that precise moment, I’d realize that I never wanted to be the OTHER WOMAN. Or ONE of the women. You won’t be THE OTHER MAN any more. You would be mine, and my only.

But that would be a fairy tale. I had stopped believing in such things.

When your heart was trampled a few times by the same person, you stopped listening what was said to you but watch was done to you.

And you thought of not man whom you loved once, but the man who was in your life now and was willing to give it, this thing, a twirl.

Beach Walk

I attempt to record a conversation. Mentally anyway. Having dreams about Ocean Beach. Because the other day he said, “let’s take a walk on the beach.” Everyone goes to Ocean Beach except for me. I don’t because I don’t think of such place is called beach. Permanently windy, permanently cold and permanently dreary. Once, I remember, vaguely, a boy I once liked took me there. He tried to kiss me in his car, and I kissed him back. We had sushi that day. It was nice. I always thought that why would he want to be with me? He liked heavy set / robust white woman. I am neither. We then drifted. No hard feelings, just that we no longer saw each other, and nothing would be the same, except that I would occasionally try to remember that day, at Ocean Beach, something happened. And then nothing. Nothing at all.

“Hi.”
“Hi, is this xx?”
He asks the obvious question.
I answer.
“No.”
“I know it’s you. You have that cute voice. Hi Cutie Pie.”
How did I go from a name to Cutie Pie? When did I become a pie? I’m a person with a name.

“So are we doing this all not?”
I try to arrange for a trip.
He says, “How about 8 in the evening?”
“That’s too late. We had said 10 AM.”
“But now you are staying the night. That’s a lot of time.”
“I sleep when I spend the night. I don’t spend time with you. That does not count.”
He proceeds to tell me the work he has to do over the course of the weekend. He’s going to a BBQ and he won’t be able to work one day, so the day where we were going to spend sometime, are now used for working.
“8 PM is too late. I want to go and do something active, like hiking, walking, running.”
“I have work to do.”
“Fine. How about just forget it? I won’t come up at all.”
Silence.
Negotiation is done forcefully.
“Okay. Come at 5. We will go to Ocean Beach, walk, watch the sun set and then eat in Richmond, Chinese food.”
“Fine. Ocean Beach, then eat at Richmond. I’ll be by.”

I then realize that I am doing the things I have tried to avoid. A romantic walk on the beach and then watching the sunset, hand in hand. I have restarted the trend like million years ago. Activities, then food in Richmond. That was always how I ended a weekend. A meal in Richmond, some restaurant that served Asian food. After a long day out. It was a routine I was familiar with and it was a routine I had made all the boys follow. And soon they did, on auto pilot.

Then one day it stopped. I stopped all my activities and I stopped going to Richmond for food. Chinese food, sushi, Thai, and anything else in between. It had been fifteen years.

Now it appears that it is starting again.
How did I get here?
How could I rewind?

Is this how it feels like when one's heart has been broken and life has been reset for her? 

Christmas lights for all seasons

There are strings of Christmas lights draped all over here, in this house, in this tastefully decorated place, which I am let in. When things don’t make sense I look at these lights, the strings of Christmas lights for all seasons, and I think to myself, life is good and complete because I have my own Christmas lights all year around.

There is a hard floor all throughout this house. Like a typical San Francisco house, it’s really more of one floor, more like a flat than a house. He lives on the first floor with rod iron gates. The floor is polished oak. Downstairs in the bedroom it is painted dark green. The floor was hand made by him many years ago. The shower stall has the exact same shower head as my ex boyfriend’s shower. My ex boyfriend who I still see on occasion. My ex boyfriend who I am still with technically, except in my mind, he is no longer a boyfriend. My ex boyfriend who sometimes I think I’m still in love with, except I can’t think like that. I must expunge him if I want to maintain my sanity, or whatever is left of it.

He takes care of me when I’m sick.

He loves Christmas lights and he enjoys talking to those who he likes and he shuts out those who he is not interested in getting to know.

He lives in his own world by his own rules and he geniunely likes me.

I like his Christmas lights. Some are in his bedroom, some are in his living room and some are in his bathroom. Different strings of lights, dimly lid, every time I’m there they are turned on. I think he turns them on just for me.

In my ex’s place it’s very quiet. He likes everything quiet and whispered. He likes me sounding like a mouse. Or making no sound at all.

In his place the room requires white noise, always TV in the background. When I’m bored, I look at those grapes and apple shaped Christmas lights. I count each fruit and then I wonder why there are eight apples and nine peaches? Why are the pineapples the same size as the pears?

Once I was very sick and I couldn’t get up. He brought me water and crackers and asked me to eat something. I said no. When I got sick I couldn’t eat or walk or speak. I could only sleep and count the Christmas lights.

I was sick the last time when I woke up at my ex’s house, I was all of sudden dizzy that time as well. I remembered thinking, “This is it. This is how I would die.” Without make up, without an ounce of pride. I shall faint and fall.

He led me back to the bed, the bed we shared, took off my shoes,  covered me with white comforter and white sheets. He said “How could you never tell me such things? I didn’t know you have this disease. Should I take you to a hospital?” I looked at him and I was sweating cold sweats, feeling nauseous and unable to move because the world was spinning. All I wanted to say, “But you have never asked. I was only your fantasy girl. We never talked. Even this relationship was not real.”  but instead I looked at him and let him remove my shoes and I closed my eyes. I remembered clearly how much I loved him. It was not logical or rational. I loved him with all my fragile heart and corrupt soul.

That day In what seemed to be distant, fainted voice, he was speaking to the car repair shop, making appointments on the phone.

At this Christmas lights filled house I laid on the couch listening to him talking to his friend about his newest design project.

Two men. One I love, and one I don’t. Both kind and both distant. Both won’t let me in, both won’t let me go. And round and round we go.

Both took photos of me. When I pose I smile. When I’m at my natural state I am serious and somber. He who has Christmas lights says that when I don’t pose I look lost and mysterious. My secrets are deeply rooted to my lack of security in all fronts of my life. My secrets are only known to one person, that person who is my ex and whom I no longer love but who loves me.

In my delirious state of being, where I’m haunted by childhood memories and tormented by my conflicting desires, I have to tell myself there are places where Christmas lights are strung and Christmas is for all seasons. That means, there is hope and a renewed life.

There has to be a brighter future than the one I have wished for.

Lost, Convertible

Woke up with the sun beaming through the window.

It’s seven forty.

Loud shout in foreign language.

Discovered path. The windiest road down Lombard.

It’s a beautiful morning.

Warm ocean breathe.

Tight fingers holding mine.

Freckles. You have freckles.

Never noticed that.

I always remember you.

As this thirty-two year old.

Blond hair. Green eyes. Bright smile.

Thin. Medium framed. Light kisses.

Ocean beach. Flying kite.

Your convertible. European convertible.

You always remember me.

As this twenty-five year old.

White dress.

White water raft.

My very own townhouse in the peninsula. 

Crazy girl.

Slimmer than now.


“Why did you leave me like that?

“Drifted apart.”

I ask the obvious question.

“I don’t know.”

That’s your favorite answer.

Pause.

“Maybe because so that we could start this.

Fifteen years later.

Together. Again.”

Your final answer.

I now drive a convertible.

A small European convertible.

Soft top.


Should we fly kite?

Ocean Beach?

On being polyamorously in love

“How old?” He asked. 

“32. He’s tall. Very tall. Very married.” She told him the truth.

“How did you meet him?” He continued with his inquisition. 

“On a bus.” She answered. Transbay bus. 

“So he lives in your town.” He asked.

“Yes.” She was being honest.

“Dating people in really extreme height ranges are fun. I fucked a girl who’s 4’11”, and then someone taller than me. It was fun.” He told her matter-of-factly.

“Is that it? Anyone else?” He continued.

“Why? Do you want  me to be loyal to you?” She asked.

“You ARE being loyal by telling me the truth. Tell me everything.” He commended.

“There is another. Another man.” She answered, resolved to tell him the every bit of truth she could by using her last bit of courage.

“How did you meet him?” 

She went silent. It was too much. A man who wanted her to be submissive, who played a dominant role, who had always expected her to behave certain way, changed his game when he found her cheating behind his back. Instead of dismissing her, he wanted to know everything about her relationships with other men. He wanted to know she was a slut, and when he was with her, he wanted her more. When he was away from her, he wanted her just as much. She had taken a different form in his life, she was at once mysterious, uncontrollable, defiant, and devoted. He knew she loved him thoroughly, despite that she was fucking others, married to someone else and saw him infrequently. He knew because inside of her eyes he found the truth. She cried for him and fell for him, she had let him go and just when that happened, he returned and declared his love for her, not devotion, for he fucked other women too, but love, a strange kind of love bounded them so completely, so thoroughly, that they invented games to make it real. 

He wouldn’t come in others but in her pussy, she made others wear condoms. He would only tie her up, piss in her mouth, spank her until her butt cheeks hurt, no one else but her. She would not let others do that to her but him.

She stayed over at his place, and for others she met up and left, never staying, she would never say the word “love” to others, neither would he.

In those narrow paths that led to pure dark tunnels trapped with tortured souls were sudden beacon of lights that guided them through the lost mind jungle, and a green meadow appeared out of nowhere, and once there, their hearts opened to receive one another, and there they fantasized a world only the two of them existed, and they’d love each other, fuck each other, drive each other crazy, care about each other, finally stop fooling around, keeping tags on each other, just peace, peace and serenity, coupled with intense passion for each other. 

They shall remain there until the end of the day. They’d finally be united. Body and Soul. They were complete. As one.

When the world was spinning, you were spinning with the world

Completed incapacitated. This was the state of my being. This was a shocker. Me, unable to wake up, me, unable to shower. Me showered and curled up like a ball, back in bed. Your bed, hair wet and unable to breath, cold sweat, dead sick, unable to eat. Toast, cookie, water? You asked? Last night I was your fantasy girl but today I was sick as a dog, unable to function, unable to get up, in your bed, cold and dizzy, the world had ended for me. It was a beginning of a beautiful day, but I was crippled, I was disease ridden, and I was falling and couldn’t get up. You came to check on me. I insisted that I should get up, and leave, but I couldn’t, I couldn’t drive. I couldn’t walk, so back to your couch I laid, the clock, tick tock, first it was eleven, then one, then three, then five. I was supposed to be somewhere, I was supposed to see someone but I couldn’t move. So at three you laid down next to me, to take a nap. I curled up next to you, feeling guilty, embarrassed and unable to move my muscle. The world was spinning and you were spinning with the world. But I was also drowning and you held me up, so that I could breath again. 

I was a weak woman who needed someone to take care of me. I couldn’t function, I couldn’t be up and running, I couldn’t be anything but this half dead, sick, useless person.  

Without make up, without an ounce of pride, I went to the toilet to throw up, vertigo did that to me, and I had nothing else to throw up, I just laid on the floor, hoping that I could catch the next breath.

You wanted to make me food, coffee, then feed me sunflower seeds, cookies and crackers. I had not eaten for nearly 20 hours. I was just staring at the clock, waiting for the clock to strike seven. And when it did, I managed to get dressed and was about to take off. I put my make up on, while chitchatted. You were watching vintage TV, Dragnet was on. You liked the show, and I had to watch it with you, because I had nothing else to do, or could do. 

You place kisses on my forehead. I wanted so much to be taken care of, but you won’t be helping me, you were too scared to help me, I was not in the right category of women to be taken care of. I didn't belong to you or anyone. 

I looked at the clock and it was time to go.  I had some place to be. I had someone to see. I traveled from one place to another, looking for a home. Looking for a place where I could finally be me. But instead this was what I ended up. I was aimless and scared. I was unable to function.  This was not the woman I wanted you to see. 

When the world ends, perhaps I could really feel, but for now… for now this note would do. 

If love were a drug, then the counter drug is complacency

A man, gorgeous and playful, appeared from nowhere, when the door opened she was astonished, a man whom she did not remember existing, hugged her, kissed her, took her by his arms, led her to his bedroom, there he fucked her but not before declaring how much he loved her, crazy about her, craved her, wanted her to be completely his. “Do you love me?” He asked as if he expected her to say “Of course I love you.” But she didn’t. She was, she was certainly in love with him, until her heart was crushed. Now she couldn’t think in that terms, the term of “loving” someone. She grew cautious and skeptical. She couldn’t believe anything out of his mouth. 

“I saw my best friend Jack. He was there.”

“What did you say?”

“About us? I told him that I’m seeing you, it’s been sometime. You are married. You fuck other men. I’m crazy about you. Even since when we first restarted.”

“Why did we end the first time? It was not long. You just drifted”

“Maybe it’s for this. Maybe we needed to finish what we started fifteen years ago. Now we are together.”

Man fantasized about being with her. Day in and day out. 

“What are you alluding to? Do you want me to leave my family for you? To live here? You don’t even have washer and dryer. That’s not convenient.”

“Doing laundry is inconvenient. You just send everything in. Or, have them be picked up.” Man countered.

“I’ll never marry again.” Woman added. 

“I love you. You are my drug.” Man declared love. He always told the woman he loved her. 

She was his main woman. And he cheated on her, many times over. 

Woman did not care. It was not important. Love came in different shapes and forms. Possessiveness and jealousy were unsightly. Any sense of that emotions was a weakness. 

“I dreamed about us running. In a field, running. Then showering. We stayed in a dorm style room with shared shower. We ran together.”

Woman liked running and doing activities. Man was more into cycling. Man wanted to know the other men she fucked. He called them her other boyfriends. She said, “I don’t have any boyfriend.”

She had one once. This man was her one and only. Until he broke her and now she just stayed on the surface, to the best of her abilities. She was weak once upon a time. She loved him with abandon. She would have left her family to be with him. She would have done anything for him. That was the true love.

“I love you. I love fucking you. I care about you.” Man was inches away from woman’s face. When they were together, they stayed in bed, clothes scattered everywhere, and they fell asleep in each other’s embrace. 

“My therapist says we are the modern twisted dark version of the Romeo and Juliet. We need to get our shit together.” She said.

Like a twister they were once again intertwined. Her head on his chest.  Earlier that evening, he was fucking her - his head and her head were on the opposite ends. They looked like a mahua, the Chinese Fried Donut twist. Sprinkle some powdered sugar they'd taste just as delicious.

She did not fuck other man the same way. She couldn’t. Man was right. She loved him, she still did. She couldn’t admit it to herself or to this man. She couldn’t because she couldn’t afford to. Thus, her expression of love was the different kind of act she put on when she fucked others. When she was alone and missed him, she wrote to others instead. She knew he would not have liked to get her emails. Half of the time, he never returned her emails.

Man wanted to explore to starting seeing her more. Woman did not believe a word out of his mouth. He did not always see her. He did not always want to see her. When he said the same thing the last time, instead of seeing her every other week, it became every other month. She couldn’t do that again, to have false expectations.

“I want you more. More then first time we dated, more then the first time we got together again, as time went on, I crave you more. I want more of you.” Man kept on telling her as if to convince her.

Woman listened but did not believe him.

She wanted to say - “Action speaks louder than words. I don’t want to hear what you have to say. Make it happen.” But she did not.

In the morning when the sun was bright, and ocean breeze came through the cracked window, and tourists speaking Mandarin screaming in delight upon finding that windy road down Lombard, woman woke up to this man’s embrace. It was always that way, the most gorgeous morning, with tourists taking photos from the up and down and dead center of the windiest street down Lombard. This was a quintessential San Francisco moment. This place, marble paved stairs, the steep hills, the ocean view, the quiet man, the whispers, the hand-holding-hand, in case this was just a dream and none of this was real. A woman was getting ready to leave. Her car parked on Leavenworth and Lombard. The usual spot, a left over parking spot only her car would fit in. Steep incline, where the streets were crowded at this time of the day, full of tourists.

It was always this way, meet, separation, meet, separation. 

If love were a drug, then perhaps the counter drug was complacency. You became nonreactive to the words that came out of your lover’s mouth. You chalked it up to words of passion. You couldn’t believe that he loved you. Because when all hopes were lost, love was nothing but a word. A sharp knife when murmured, cutting through the heart. Heart could be mended, but wounds should never be reopened.

Let love be the last fantasy, and may we all live in that fantasy, for as long as we could, and need, but always remember, it was just a fantasy,  the reality was always bleak and somber.

Miscarriage

So this is true. Miscarriage is the end of a life in its most natural form. It gets expeled out of your body, like a reject, like a birthday song sung too early, like love gone awry. Or perhaps it is a sign that love has gone awry.

Miscarriage is therefore a love story ended too soon. It's the last sign that he existed. He had tried to form an unit and your body rejected him like you did fifteen years ago.

French Women, American Women, Asian Women and All Women

Vanity Fair has finally caught on with French Women Don’t genre, in this issue, it says “‘No French woman willing works, French women have better things to do with their time, like waxing their legs and seducing other people’s husbands.’ Unlike her neurotic American sisters, a French bachelorette would never be caught dead moping on the sofa, digging into a tub of Haagen-Dazs because some doofus did not call, and she never goes out looking as if she just crawled out a laundry hamper…She remains mistress of her domain, avoiding the terrible modern fate of both sexes: becoming a sad sack.” 

Recently a male friend went on a rampage on why American Women suck and how dating foreigners changed his perspective. “With an European woman, she’s genuinely happy if you handed her an Apple.” “American women are so angry, self-entitled and have unrealistic expectations.” He then added.  I recall a very similar conversation I had with yet another male friend of mine not too long again; and yet again, nearly two years ago I heard the same complaint from another male friend. I wanted to defend American Women because I’m one myself. I think American women are fundamentally the best kind of women in the world. Yet I am slightly conflicted about it because I’m quite fond of French women’s ways and my move to France is not a possibility but inevitability at this point. 

But, I’m still feeling more American than anything else. So my friend added, “Well, you are kind of American but not really. You spent your formative years abroad. And you are so independent, laid back and happy. Plus, what do you know - you are Chinese. You guys are totally in demand, with soft skin, small frame and long straight hair, you are considered attractive by most men. And let’s not forget, you, in particular, have a big rack, unlike most Asian women. You don’t know what’s like out there. ” He continued. 

“Excuse me, I beg to differ. Most of my white guy friends only date white women. And I had never felt to be such an object of an affection in my earlier, in-demand years. ” I challenged his theory. 

So this friend rolled his eyes, and said, “Com’on, don’t lie.” 

Alright, he knew that I knew what he said was true, and he knew that I knew that men think that I’m hot, even at this age. But it’s not because I was of a particular race, it’s because I was attractive as a woman.

It’s an universal truth, as an attractive woman, all you need to do is to bat your eye lashes, catches his glance and then look away. Adding to that physical attractiveness, you then must be not annoying, not complaining or have unrealistic expectations. Then you can keep a guy. Men are simple. They fall with their eyes. If they lust over you, you get to keep them. Jane Austen got it right. So did the French women. 

And on occasion, an Asian American woman like me.

I’m in the wrong business. I should write relationship column. I should start my very first column by titling it “How to be handed an apple and be happy.“ 

Food, fucking, and how not to fall in love

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