Lunch, Embarcadero, with E

Lunch. Hurried steps. E was waiting. I had suggested to go to the Ferry Building because I wanted to pack some walk in my daily routine. I wanted to lose 10 pounds. I'm not heavy but I want to lose weight. To look better.

Bought lunch for the both of us. Sat outside and soaked in the sun. E said that he'd not seen me for a month. I didn't realize it's been that long; it's not exactly one month. I saw him just before fourth of July. It had been sometime, certainly. I saw him usually once a week.

The price to pay when you had to maintain a relationship. Even if it's a side one. I liked E because when I was with him, I was happy. No sad feelings. no wondering why or how. He was never going to be mine, and I was never going to be his. It was a casual relationship at best, one that lasted over a year, and it'll probably last even longer, if I let it.

I realized that I had anger issues. I really hated B for having told me that he loved me. It was manipulative and disrespectful of him. He should never had lied to me and made shit up like that. Toying with my feelings was the first of many mistakes he had made. And I couldn't stand the thought of having fallen for that.

E was calm and collected. He'd been stressed with work. He'd been working on a lot of work stuff. There were personnel issues. They lost three employees. He was always very driven. He told me for the first time that he majored in math in college. I had no idea. He was going to be an engineer, instead he became a finance person. A successful one at that.

I was happy that this year when he'd be at Burning Man I'd be in Stockholm, where he spent his youth. When I would return, he'd be returning as well. Last night I looked up the dates for Burning Man for this year. I thought to myself - how did I ever become interested in such an event? Because of E. He went there every year for ten years. It was part of his make up. Thus it affected me as well.

Even a side relationship required maintenance. E had many guy friends who were married and also had side relationships. I asked how they usually work out. He told me that "they don't usually work out. It's usually short lived." One guy would see his girlfriend twice a week. "That's a lot of work." I commented. He agreed. "Unlike ours. We are so casual about it." He said. When we started to see each other, we saw each other two three times a week, then it became once a week or once every two weeks, when he and I were traveling, we'd go for about a month without having sex. We'd still make time for each other, to have dinner or lunch, but we didn't always fuck. We liked each other's company. I was low maintenance, self sufficient and completely understated in our relationship. I didn't brag, did not bug him, did not insist on seeing him, I let things be. But I made effort to try to get together with him. When he flaked, he apologized, and I just listened and let go. I did not require much to be maintained. All I needed was some level of dependability, some level of communication, some respect, and the actual sexual act.  I realized that perhaps that was how every relationship, side or not, should be. No heavy emotional declarations. No failed promises. No disappearing act.

Again, I was very angry with B. I had never been so angry with anyone but him. He was often gone two months at a time. I never heard from him, when I called he never returned phone call.  He never talked to me, and then when he saw me he told me that he loved me and he wanted to be with me always. That was a lie. A damn good lie. An outrageous one. I couldn't believe that I believed him and thought we had a future together. I had never met his friends. I had never heard of him talking about his friends. He never let me in. He treated me like a whore. He had never given a damn about me. Yet other men did.

When I finally had enough in February of this year, my therapist told me that perhaps he did feel, he had genuine feeling for me, she said.  I remembered shaking uncontrollably, I said, "No, he did not. He never gave a shit about me. He couldn't possibly cared about me. Everything came out of his mouth was a lie."

Even E. Who was only in his early 30s, did that. He let me in. I met his friends. More than once. He talked to me about his wife, his life, his family and his travels. He told me what he did over the weekend, what he was up to and how his work was affecting his life. I knew enough to know what he was up to. We spent more time apart but when we were together, we were happy; we shared lots of things in common, and no one was wondering what it meant. It meant not that much. Just that we liked each other's companionship. And I loved that. I loved that we never made a big deal about being together for a year, and he never promised anything and not delivered. Under promise, over deliver. That was the key.

Oh, how Scandinavian of us!

I dropped a piece of celery on my black suit, it landed on my left chest. E took his hand and removed it, gently, brushing against my breast. I put my legs which was dressed in fishnet stockings under his thighs, to stretch them out. He grabbed my legs, squeezing them tight.

Under the broad light, among all city dwellers, we sat on a bench and chitchatted away, to catch up and to plan for our next meet up. He acted like that I was with his lover, and in that brief moment, I believed that I was indeed his. 

Til Death Do Us Part

New trainer reminded me of someone. Kept on thinking. Who? Who? Who?

He was lying on the bench, demonstrating a weight lifting technique. It dawned on me. Him. That guy.

That guy was the only person I came close to marry. Blond. 5'11". Blue eyes. With glasses. Fit. A spy. Bourne Identity type. International romance.  Any city, you named it we hit it. Any place, the epitome of love declared in Hedonism II, Jamaica, then Sandals, he lifted me up under the waterfall, kissing me, passionately, like I had never been kissed before. Our first fight in Chicago, snowy winter night, a long walk in Boston, through Maine we drove until there were nowhere left to go. Meeting his parents in Virginia, walking hand in hand in Washington D.C., where he worked, made love until the sun came up and then fell asleep in each other's arms. His soft voice, his all American good looks, his love, the undying love that nearly killed me, when all that ended, I simply jumped into a relationship that promised nothing, and loved those who could not love me back.

You could say I got burned.

And this new trainer looked like my ex fiance. Two people proposed to me. First was this Swedish guy. I couldn't leave this country for him. Then came to this guy. I couldn't even say his name after eighteen years. I couldn't write about him, and I had trouble remembering much about our relationship, until recently a photo album resurfaced my long forgotten years.

That was the love of a century. I knew that now because I had often tried to love another but I couldn't, and wouldn't. So I ended up trying to manufacture love like feelings towards those emotionally distant men, and I cried when they did not love me back, but I could only love them because I KNEW they wouldn't be able to love me back. Eighteen years and counting, I could never love again, not like that.

He was seven years older than me. That would make him almost 48. His birthday was in early September. He was born and raised near D.C., and was of German decent. He spoke five languages fluently. He was into fitness, body building, and he was brilliantly smart. Never had a lot of former education but he was driven and intelligent. He was sexually perverse. Had done bi stuff, loved sex, addicted to it, rather, and he loved me like he's never loved another. He travelled a lot, and lived in all parts of the world, he was a spy, and worked in Pentagon when I met him. He had been in wars, carrying out secret missions. He had stationed in many parts of the world, the last place we spent together, after he and I were unofficially engaged, was Jamaica U.S. embassy, where he was dispatched.

I nearly married him. He was perhaps the best looking person I'd ever met. Squared jawed and blond sun kissed hair, and that studious, intense look in his eyes whenever he looked at me. I had trouble concentrating when I was with him. He knew that I wanted a threesome. While in Southern California, he arranged for me to meet his friend, and that evening we had the best threesome ever. I had never been with two men after him. It was an experience not to be forgotten for as long as I should live.

In Jamaica's Hedonism II, we saw a BDSM club, people had sex everywhere, I was into nude beaches and sex on the beach, literately, and the room we stayed in had a mirror mounted on the ceiling, there we had sex for hours, and then on the beach and other public places.

Only one other person I knew in my circles had been to Hedonism II in the 90s, and that was B. I remembered it because we were there around the same time. I went to Jamaica to be with my fiance. No one knew that I was engaged. I couldn't tell people after what he did to me. But that was another story, a tale to be told in another day.

We talked to each other often. Nearly every day. We wrote to each other every day. He had other sex partners, I assumed that was the case, but I knew he loved me. and It was difficult at first, to have someone tell you how much they loved you, and to believe it, but I did, I knew he was the one.

There were intense moments, there were moments we fought when he suspected that I was not being loyal, and there was that wintery night when he arrived in Chicago and I was just finished entertaining a gentleman caller. I was young, a professional in my own field, I was wild and crazy, and I enjoyed sex with men I met. But he was different. He loved me. There was something else, and I later learned, with love, it often came with jealousy, possessiveness, and intense emotions.

I avoided drama after that relationship, I was afraid what it would do to my sanity. Whenever there was a conflict, I chose the easy way out, I never confronted, argued or fought for what I believe was right for me. I just stepped back and pretended everything was okay. Perhaps I burned out too fast too prematurely.

For years followed, I couldn't bring myself to love again so completely. I chased after those whom I couldn't love, should not love, knowing that their affection for me would not last, and therefore I would be safe.

Years passed.

One year I was seeing this guy and he told me that he was visiting a friend down in San Diego, a man that fit my description and had his name, was there, and he had those incredibly blond hair, wavy, and he was arrogant and condescending. He had followed me to California by that time, and I had told him to leave me alone, so that I could get over him. When this guy told me about his encounter with this man, my heart sank, not because I was angry about his existence, but I was angry about why I still cared.

After I was an adult, I talked to him once more. About nine years ago. He had moved back to Virginia, and gotten out of the spying business. I did not ask him about his personal life, nor did I want to know. By then, I just needed to know that he was no longer near me.

I tried to forget about him, but one could not really forget about the one person who shaped your life. It was one of those experiences, when told to others, as if it never happened to you, a good story, an adventure of a sort. But when you had lived through it, you knew that it was not all about the glamourous life that you once led.

He and I covered so many grounds. Any city, any corner of the world, we had been together. He was why I was unable to give myself to anyone fully. He was the reason why I couldn't love fully, and he was the reason why I couldn't resist a man who had physical resemblance of him.

I always thought, or rather, knew, one day, one day he'd come back in the form of a ghost, to haunt me.

He was a tormented soul, and I suspected that he had died. I didn't know why, but then why else would he return to my dreams in the recent months?

We all die one day. And sometimes the only peace you get, was when you knew that person was dead. Maybe that was the wedding ceremony I missed, or maybe I never missed it at all, we were apart at last. he was dead. 

Are you really ready to say goodbye?

When I woke up this morning, I was feeling surprisingly calm. I realized that as I was processing things last night, that when A ceased to exist in September of 2011, B entered the picture. I was still lingering over A for a good three months, by January I was completely over A. B took longer, in that our relationship was much more intense, and that he was the first person I began to get emotionally attached with since fourteen years ago, when I was still in my mid twenties. It took longer because of these reasons.

But then at some point, we all had to move on. Moving on is a difficult task if you don't know how. I had never been able to be alone, alone. I liked having companions. I liked being surrounded by men when I needed that companionship. Usually being alone was also nice but when I was with someone I felt more complete, and then I needed to be alone again. The push and pull mechanism was so profoundly enticing when I was seeing B.

I also learned one thing that was absolutely certain about my failed attempt with B. I loved him. I have absolutely undoubtedly loved him. Unconditionally, passionately, jealousy free, loved him. When I was in France, I recognized that once again and I realized that it was he whom I wanted to be with, for the rest of my life, and just as that thought bubbled up I knew it was going to be the real end. 

I didn't believe in happy endings. I didn't believe in maintaining a relationship that would be functional, and I also didn't believe that you could love someone and expect that person to love you back the same amount, or the same way.

I knew it was going to end the moment he knew that I still felt for him. 

And just like that, I was approaching to an end. He again disappeared. And I again, was distraught and unconvinced that my love was real.

At the same time, I had embarked on a new journey with C. C was funny, happy and emotionally unavailable. I loved that about him because I never had to worry about breaking his heart. I would not love him and he knew that I would not love him. 

All was safe.

I was supposed to see E for lunch tomorrow. I was going to hang out with a buddy of mine on Friday. He and I were not compatible, but he and I often did things together like a couple. Which was strange because he was the last person I'd have sex with, sometimes it's best to maintain just friendship with men you like. We will see. 

But I was calm. And I was ready to say goodbye. This time, not a physical goodbye, but an emotional goodbye. And with that, a love story ended. 

A year and some months later, I had arrived at this space. In a week or two's time, I'd friend him on FB, and it would be the final closure. I often did that, when I no longer cared, I friended the person, it was my way of making peace and allowing him to be back into my other life, the life that was open and good, the life that was normal and mundane. It was a great bridge to build, to transition a lover into just a friend. You befriend them on FB, they became just a face in your list, and they no longer occupied your mental space. And I envisioned the day would come, and when it finally came, I knew I had finally arrived, and ready to move on. 

Train crash, can you escape this unscathed?

I was complaining as I phoned up C. I was having a headache, I was antsy, I wanted to get out of the office, and I was hoping that I could have one more last chance to connect with B but I knew instinctively it was the end. Something happened, between the time I was returning from France and B heading to Chicago, something happened, and nothing remained the same. It was really the end. B had finally moved on, and he no longer wanted to see me. His half-hearted cancellation, and his lack of response showed that he no longer wanted me the same way I wanted him. I had been back for some time, and he did not want to see me. He claimed that he wanted me but he didn't, and I knew everything was heading to the end, and it was the end that I had been waiting for, but it didn't make it any easier. C wanted to see me. I didn't want to see C. I wanted to go and work out and go home and sleep. C wanted to see me and then have dinner. I was exhausted, starving and I was running late. I liked to work out and shower after. C was definitely getting anxious, "Let's just hang out. I want to see you." He said. So I went over there at 7:20. Friday was usually our date night. I saw him more than I had ever seen anyone else. C liked weekly visit and C enjoyed my companionship. I encouraged C to see other women. He dated other women, and it helped me to justify why I couldn't be just with C, my heart belonged to B, yet I probably saw B six times in total last year.

C treated me like a kid. He called me "Monkey." "Cutie Pie." "Baby." "Darling." "My precious." Seriously. I didn't know why C felt that way about me. Why couldn't he call me "beautiful?" Cute was a term used for kids. I was not a kid. But that was for C to decide. I had a kid's voice. I used to sing. I can't help it when I have a kid's voice, even at this age. C kissed my arms, my legs and hugs me and kisses me on my lips. He was so happy to see me. He was making me dinner and he wanted to feed me. After dinner we sat on the couch and talked. He took photos of me. He liked my outfits, or in-fits, as in the case may be. Outfits that were for sluts. Cupless bras. He loved that. He loved my large dangling breasts. He liked my small shapely legs and frames. He liked to kiss me all over, and he loved my CFM shoes. I always wore nice high heels.

I told C that I didn't want to have sex. So C took photos and cuddled me. We watched documentary and surfed public television stations. We caught up even though we talked all the time on the phone. C liked to talk about his science stuff.

I wanted to sleep and I hurt my shin getting up. He was nearly in tears watching me in pain. I gave him my big brown eyes, teared up and he just wanted to do anything in his power to stop my suffering. He cared about me, more than he let on. I couldn't handle that. I didn't want to be loved.

In bed. He knew what I liked. I couldn't be happier sexually with C. It was the best sex that I've had in a while, more importantly, he's the only one who consistently got me off. I don't know why. Maybe because he had ginormous 8 inch cock.

I fell asleep in his arms.

Woke up in the middle of the night and called for his name. "Baby, what time is it?"

"It's only 4:30." He told me and then put his arms around me, and flipped me over so that we were in classic spooning position. At 10 AM we woke up finally. He fucked me silly. I was not in the mood, but then he was spanking me and I was wet as a puddle. I was a perverse person. He needed to tie me up. That's what he'd be willing to do. That's it. I tried to tell him to tie me up. He's not into it. He's good at just plain fucking. Long duration fucking. He's somewhat like B in bed. But without the weird bondage and discipline stuff.  I kind of needed that. I liked it when B does certain things to me. I would not feel comfortable doing it with anyone else anyway. Only B. But B was not my friend. He wouldn't be a friend. He came in and out of my life, and occasionally we'd fuck, whenever he saw. I wished that I could be his friend, but I doubt that would ever happen. I wish he could find someone to fuck me when he couldn't fuck me any more, but I doubt that he would want me to be fucked by others.

Bummer.

C fed me dinner and then breakfast. French toast was on the menu this morning: savory, yummy and delicious. He knew how to make food. I was loitering, putting on make up, admiring myself in the phone camera, and being a girl talking about nothing. Then it was time to eat. He even cut them up into small pieces for me. Short of feeding them directly into my mouth, he was doing everything for me. He'd turn on the shower, which had the same exact shower head as B's bathroom,  he'd then wait for the temperature was just alright, then he called me into the shower, got me a fresh towel and off he went. I could hear him walking back and forth upstairs making coffee. When I was all cleaned up and wandered to the living room, wrapped in a towel, hair wet, and I'd whine, "Where is my coffee?" He'd bring me a cup of freshly brewed coffee. We read the news together. He then soaked the bread in eggs and milk while I put on my face.  I thanked him for making me breakfast, and dinner last night. He gave me a hug and kissed me, called me a "cutie pie" again. He did such things for me because he appreciated my companionship. He did not need to do anything for anyone. He knew when to say no. He said no often to me.

That's what's so strange about men. They will do things for those who they care about, all the time, and then they turn into assholes and fucking disappear when they are tired of you. All  you could remember was the good days and you are dumbfounded when they stop trying. 

That's why women need to know when to say goodbye. Exit left stage, soundlessly, no more asking why, no more wondering why, just know that your time is up and it's time to leave the dance floor. Find a new partner, get rid of the old, don't linger, don't wonder why. It's not as simple or as complicated as you think. It's really just that he no longer wants you. 

The only way to get rid of B was to go cold turkey. An exorcism was to be performed; with B, I felt like a heroin addict, often withdrawal, with the occasional high.

I ought to listen to myself. B no longer wanted me. It's crazy, one moment he said yes he couldn't wait to see me and one moment he was complete silent. I had gotten tired of waiting. I moved on, if not emotionally, physically. I was spoiled rotten by this man, C. We were good together. So I kept on telling myself.

He told me that he was interviewed last week. For two hours. The clip would be on the news in a week. "What, why are you just telling me?" I asked.

"I hate being interviewed." He's a local celebrity. He hated being interviewed. He hated to be the center of attention. He liked white women. He preferred them to be blondes, actually, and with nice body. He had a lot of guy friends, geeky guy friends. He was the well rounded one who was very very smart and good looking so he thought others were dorky looking. They may have gone to Ivy Leagues but they sucked at their looks. I found myself often get tangled up with really smart men who thought hey were hot and smart. And they liked women, different kind of women.

I didn't know how I got into this mix. I was not his usual type. He did not often date my race at all. B did not date my race much either. Both men liked white women. What the fuck?!

Next week we would have officially met each other for a year. But C did not ask me out until 8 months later.

He detained me in the morning, showing me his work, and simply wanted me to be with him. So I was with him until 2 PM. I was supposed to me seeing him for an evening. Yet half of the weekend was gone. I stayed to eat breakfast and talk to him. I was not sure why he has been prolonging my visit. I feared that I had become his weekend girlfriend. The main one. I was torn about that. I was always afraid of commitment, especially commitment I could no longer give.

I did not know anything any more. But I did know that it's a good idea to simplify my life, and to say a final goodbye to B, because while I loved B, he did not love me back, and he would always be hot and cold, and it had run its final course, and it's time to move on.

There was a crash of two trains inside a tunnel in the news today. C and I read the news and we said, that was terrible. I was thinking to myself, that if I had to crash and burn it might as well be with B.  I told C that I used to date five people at the same time. I then simplified. I thought dating one would be better. It was all relative. I couldn't possibly know what's what. I knew nothing. 

If I were in a train crash, it might as well be with B. But he left without ever bleeding, he hopped on another train, without even saying goodbye, he was gone. I remained in the rubble, shaking and in shock, waiting for something, for someone, waiting for his return. Though I was not physically injured. A year and some months, I waited. Then C arrived on scene, scooped me up and took me away. When the grief finally subsided, I realized that I had survived the crash by escaping it unscathed, I should consider myself lucky.

I must tell myself that. I must bury the past, and move on. As there was no other way. We all must move on.

This is my life

C emailed to tell me that he went to the University last night because he had work to do. I think he thought that I might have called him and he did not pick up the phone as we often chat in the evenings.

I had not called him. I was busy reading. I had a lot of things to do. One of which was to sort out of my emotional state of confusion and try very hard to separate my physical needs from my emotional needs.

I also had to work very late. I like working. I had to get up really early to work as well. But it has gotten to me.

But that's very cute. I like that he's considerate and that I'm on his mind.

The scale might have just tipped. He's not the most exciting person in the world. But he cares about me, we have an emotional connection. Sex is phenomenal. Unbelievably great. He was the only person I could achieve orgasm with every single time.  He is low maintenance. He is extremely smart. He does not require any emotional maintenance. He does not play games. I think he's autistic, a little bit.

He had told me that his ex girlfriend had returned from Germany. She had been wanting to get in touch with him and hang out more often. He had been blowing her off because he felt that she was being underhanded about everything. By calling his friends and getting in touch with his parents, she seems to try to assert her back into his life. He had been ignoring her. I began to think that B was ignoring me. He has been. Only email once in a great while and not making plans to see me. Am I also his side gig? I don't mind being the side gig, I just want to be seen regularly. I don't expect heavy emotional attachment, I just want to have fun.

It's been a long week, though when I wake up I realized my dreams are not about B any more. I have not dreamed about him much. I did recently dream about C writing about his ex and how much he really loved her, and he didn't want to be with her because he didn't want to get emotionally involved with her. But then I realized that's not true. C likes being with me. On Fridays we often just hang out together, we don't necessarily do much but we enjoy starting the weekend together. Every Friday it seems. He likes to kick back and hang out with me, we sometimes watch a movie, or he'll make me a meal, and we'd talk and catch up. It's really that simple. It's more or less like a real relationship, with a nice way to wrap up the week and start the weekend. I guess in a way we all just want that. A good companionship, a good way to take mind off things and a good way to start the weekend.

I don't know why and how I ended up here, but in a strange but assuring way I've started a new chapter of my life, where life is simple and uncomplicated. And let things mature and evolve.

This is my life. And life is good.

Taking an emotional stock, planning an exit strategy

Supposed to get together for a meal with E tomorrow. Have not seen that boy for a while. I have not missed him either. I called it inertia. But then again, you can graduate someone from a lover status to friend status right? I've successfully transitioned several of them. The truth is that sexual attraction is not always there for me, after a while it gets boring. I get bored.

Therefore, always need new blood. It's not hard. Men like me. I think someone at work has a crush on me. I think it's possible to be more than one. Not the engineers, they just get all scared of me, but business people. No one is going to do anything but they like me, I get that. I'm not interested in them of course. Walking towards the gym and some guy riding the elevator and walking from the garage started to talk to me. I forgot to put my wedding band on. He's cute, in a fit kind of way. Just got back from Barcelona. I like men who travel. But I didn't follow up. I had an appointment to make.

I speak to C nearly daily. C is my stable clean boyfriend. Make-believe Boyfriend. I realized that I've been seeing him since April. I thought it was longer than three months. But I must have met him early April. He does not know my other intrigues. I don't think he wants to know. He did say it would be OK but when I did ask him the specifics, he didn't want me to have other men. I wouldn't necessarily call it a fair game. I didn't want to see him exclusively. I am in fact getting bored of him. Why? Because he's always available. He acts that he does not care but I think he does care. And he's so predictable. I'm bored. Again.

E is out of the country, on vacation. First week he's in Ireland and the second week Boston. I like him. He's predictable and powerful. I like powerful men. I also like the fact that I have absolutely no intention to fall in love with him and I would never fall for him.

I think I should give B the boot. I loved him. I had a year and half long affair with him. I am not even that interested in him any more because he fails me. Over and over again he fails me. I believe that he really cannot possibly love me even if he tried. I also believe that despite his good looks, he requires validation ad harem of women to feel worthy. I refuse to take part in it.

So I think I'm doomed. All my hopes and dreams and fantasies. Down the drain.

I remember last Saturday morning, when I woke up by C, when he made me coffee and breakfast, I was so happy and content, and I thought to myself, this is it. I'll just keep C as my lover and call it a day. No more complication, no more longing, no more feeling, just one guy, and one guy only. But then I realized that I am still interested in other men. I like other men. I like the feeling of being pursued, or pursuing. I like to be surrounded by men who adore and admire me, and I like the interaction. I like the game. I like playing a role. It's not even anything complicated. It's just that I enjoy this game. I also like being at home and reading (Polyamory in 21st Century at the moment), and or hanging out with girlfriends. But I think more importantly I miss something. I don't know what it is that I miss, it's not just sex. It's passion. The passion of unknown. the passion of love. If I was to have any doubt about my current state of affairs, I go back to my old journal from February and March. I had contemplated breaking up with B for a long while and then after I did break up with him, it felt like that the world had ended, but then we sort of got back together. Yet I knew that he knew I was not just with him, and he knew that I knew he's not just with me. He continued to see other women. He was not really here for me. I knew that going in the second time. But here is the truth. He ignites me. Simple. He knew how to arouse me. Bt that's because we don't have any sort of pre-determined meeting dates. I miss him still and I don't want to.

C told me that we are programmed this way. We can't deny our emotions.

I need a new adventure. I need to meet someone new, and have a new adventure. But for now, I'll resort to child rearing, reading books, contemplating my exit strategy with B and keep my options open. After all, I'm a clever, resourceful woman who is both intelligent and attractive. Not to mention that I have pretty much everything else that I care to have. The only thing that I don't have is love. 

Sushi Boat restaurant and men who loved sushi

When I was nearly 20 and graduated from a 4 year college, I met this blond man with blue eyes, a golfer and a corporate executive, I worked for him indirectly and soon we fell in love. He was born in Marin, and lived in California all his life. Besides golf, watching sports an gambling in Reno, he loved one thing and one thing only. He loved sushi. When Miyake opened in early 90s in Cupertino, right near the Apple headquarter, it was quite the scene, because it was the very first sushi boat restaurant in the South Bay. We went there nearly every other night. I learned to order sushi and enjoy the boat and how the dishes cost different price depending on the plate's color and pattern. The year was 1992.

When he and I parted ways, out of spite I began to date this man who was his nemesis professionally. He was from upstate New York, besides playing hockey and dating blond women (which I was not, clearly), he liked me (and since developed a thing for Asian women), and he loved sushi. We ate in every good sushi restaurant in the South Bay until I couldn't take any more sushi. The year was 1994.

My third boyfriend was a Jersey boy who went to college in Boston and was a controller at a large semiconductor company. Our first date was at Miyake's, the sushi boat restaurant in Cupertino. He too loved sushi. I remembered eating there and then rushing home to pack for Philly. That winter I spent at Philly for work. By the time spring came and I returned to the bay area, I found out that he had been accepted into Harvard Business School. "I should go. Don't you think?" He asked of me, as if I should be giving him the permission.

For years we dated bi-coastal and ate sushi through Boston, New York, Hoboken, San Francisco and more. It was the one thing we had in common. Whenever we went out, we ate at a sushi restaurant, unless we went to a bar, like Left of Albuquerque on Union Street, which he seemed to like the most.

I began to think if I was cursed. It was as if I was imprinted with a specific kind of men. Men who loved sushi also liked me.

When I met this dashing TD&H man who was an accomplished journalist and a New York transplant attending a prestigious fellowship at Standford, I was more than smitten. He was also 16 years senior than me. Alas, such a girl crush type of romance never ended well. He introduced me to French cuisine and I took a break finally at sushi. By the time he broke up with me I was crushed and decided to go into hiding.

For nine months I stayed in a monogamous relationship with a Norwegian boy who loved surfing and clubbing. He was the only vegetarian I had ever dated. We never had any sushi, or coffee. When the spring came and I started to work in Salt Lake City, I had decided to give him the boot.

The first thing I did after my final break up was visiting this sushi boat restaurant in Japantown in San Francisco, which, given where I lived at the time, was the closest place near my house. I travelled Monday through Thursday, and every Friday I worked at home. Every Friday during lunch, I drove myself to Japantown, found that sushi boat restaurant, and parked myself at the start of the boat parade line, and  consumed a large amount of sushi, soundlessly, alone, with a book on hand. The year was 1997.

For about six months I treated my Japantown sushi boat restaurant expedition as a detox, from a worn out, sparkle-less, tiresome, boring, monogamous , sushi-less, relationship. Gradually I was feeling whole again. I remembered one day I was walking into work and ran into my partner. He took a look at me and said to me, "Wow, you do smile."

For nine months when I was stuck in this monotonous relationship, I missed two things - coffee and sushi, and apparently smile. But later on in life, I realized perhaps what I missed more than these items were my freedom. I could not be happy to be stuck in a relationship that signified monogamy and was passionless. I avoided sushi the same way I avoided my feelings.

I was worried about getting stung again by trying to love someone without knowing if he'd love me back, so instead I chose someone who was safe, nice to me but ill-matched in the end.

I couldn't remember when it was the last time I went back to Japantown, to that sushi boat restaurant, it must have been over a decade. But I remembered how satisfied I was to walk out of there, week after week, every Friday, lunch time, I was there, alone, enjoying the mediocre sushi floating on the top of the water, and I waited for my favorites to arrive, and then I picked them up gingerly, ate them while reading feminist books that denounced men and relationships.

In the years followed, I had graduated my taste from regular sushi boat restaurants to fancier sushi places like Ozumo near Embarcadero or Kirala in Berkeley. But whenever I drove  on Geary Blvd., I was reminded of my trips to that particular sushi boat restaurant in Japantown, every single Friday, lunch for one.

It did not take a therapist to figure me out. Sushi boat = freedom; man who love to eat sushi = love affair that guaranteed sparks.

As I had gotten older, I figured out a few things about me and how I operated. We all had our imprints. The first love, the way a person made you feel when you were young, the experienced you gained while dating during your impressionable years were the imprints you gained. For me, a formula to my heart was quite really that simple - blond haired man who loved to eat sushi with me. Sounded a little simplistic, but it would somehow fit the M.O.

My last big love affair came unexpectedly. It was with this little boy who was little, literately. He was only 5'8", comparing to all those men I dated who were over 6'3", he was petite, and I told him so (a big mistake, as I later learned) in more than one occasions. He lived in North Beach and went to MIT. I thought he was smart and cute, plus he loved sushi. So despite my nagging feeling of him being too short, (and also very insecure, as it turned out,) I went out with him. He fitted my formula - a blond boy who loved sushi. Nearly ever other date we went to Sushi Groove in Russian Hill, now called Elephant Sushi, and we ate at the counter liked two love birds. I was convinced he was the one for me.

Sadly the passionate intense love affair ended quicker than I could have imagined. As much as I thought the formula would have worked, and that I'd already spent a lot of time meeting his parents and the only sister, it was doomed at the start. I had more than once called him "petite" in front of my girlfriends, I was a bit of an insensitive brat, and he wanted to be thought as a man. I would never have given him the respect he needed to gain the validation of himself, no matter how many sushi meals we had at Sushi Groove.

I figured out that there was a fundamental flaw to my no-fail formula of "blond hair man who loved sushi "- he must also love me no matter what. My flaws were severe and irreversible. I needed a man who was mature and older than me to know how to deal with me and to take care of my emotional needs as well as my craving for sushi. It was not the sushi that made them special, it was what they did to me and for me that made them significant.

I erased my formula for good.

My adult relationships did not evolve around sushi.  It dealt with practical matters, with sushi being just a side note, as it should be.

I had not returned to Japantown sushi boat restaurant, alone or with anyone.

But on occasion, the romantic, impractical side of me would wonder,  would I ever meet another blond hair man who loved sushi, and who loved me too? And if that day should come, would he be so kind and take me to that mediocre sushi boat restaurant in Japantown?

That day would be a fine day indeed. 

Makeshift San Francisco Style Relationship

"Pie # 2 turned out even better than Pie # 1 aka (the best in the universe). Girlfriends loved it so much they wanted the recipe. I sent them the link to the series of photos I took of you making the pie. Frozen mixed berries - $2.99 at TJ's is better than fresh blue berries. Jiffy is not as good as TJ brand. Dark Brown sugar is the shit. Freshly whipped cream with a little bit of mint on top makes it summer like.

Oh God I'm turning into Martha Stewart! (I hate you!) I want to be the sexy kitten in high heels and not the plump smily Barefoot Contessa! Stop cooking delicious food!!

How did your stress analysis test go? What if it does not sustain the stress test? I have a visual of some flying object flying at 100 miles an hour during your stress test, through the window it goes, shattering the glass and hitting a poor teen on skateboard across the street.

That would be kind of fun."

I wrote to C. C was having a fun work day in his lab. I was out having fun with girlfriends. C made the original pie, not once but twice. C took me on this excursion, through Mission to Diamond Height onto Noe Valley, then through Twin Peaks, into Inner Sunset, and finally Outer Sunset. A neighborhood that I had not frequented since when I was in my early twenties. I spent my teen and early twenties in Outer Sunset. It had not changed much, like its own world. I knew Taraval street the most, but that was because I sort of lived there. Since then I moved to the Peninsula, had bought my first townhouse when I was barely 24. I dated many men in many parts of the city, and never once I returned to Outer Sunset, until recently.

It felt like a foreign country, and Ocean Beach felt like no other beach. C insisted on going to Ocean Beach again, and said "this time we should try to stay for more than 30 seconds." C held me tight as we walked onto the sandy beach. I thought he was afraid of me being blown away by the wind. It was already dark, at 9:30 PM PDT the ocean felt mysterious. I had this flash of old memory coming back to me, beach bonfire, many years ago, with bunch of people I was no longer in touch with.

C had lived in the city since the mid 90s. I started coming to the city since 1990. Yet some parts of the city had not changed. I saw a picture of C when he was in his early 30s, he looked goofy in his long hair. I would not have liked him at all. Some boys matured into men, and they did not appear to be at their prime until much later on. C was one of those boys. 

In our own ways our interaction became the way we memorialized our youth spent in San Francisco; in that process we acknowledged our mortality and the inevitability of time passing and us aging.

Instead of going out and drinking at a bar, we went out for dinner and then took a walk on the beach. Instead of catching a movie in the theatre we often stayed inside and discussed world affairs and current events. We talked about books and culture, travels and work projects. Then we retreated to the bedroom and had sex for an hour or two until both of us were exhausted. It's not exactly what you'd call a passion filled romance. But when we were older we were less consumed by the constant go go go mentality, and we were even less inclined to show the world our affection for each other was real. It became a routine. A simple, unbreakable routine that was filled with tenderness and known expectations.

Or perhaps that was how this particular dynamics worked in this particular relationship.

C knew he was a good looking man. He listened well. He had two sisters. He knew how girls thought and worked. He was a left handed man who was more interested in talking about programming language, robots and mechanical things than watching sports or whatever it was for ordinary American men to do in their spare time. I was always attracted to such men. I liked men who lived in their heads and read a lot in their spare time. I liked men who were emotionally distant but adored me regardless of their inability to commit. I liked men who could keep up with me and respected me enough to know that I could not, and would not, stay faithfully loyal with one man at a time, because they could not do the same with only one woman, and expecting me to be so would be hypercritical and they were too emotionally advanced to feel that way.

Plus they enjoyed having sex with me. I smelled good. I took care of myself. I was disease free and was obsessive about my hygiene. I had been financially independent for over a decade. And I was generous to those men who I adored. 

But there maybe something else.

C remembered how I came to this country. 15. Alone. Political Asylum. Turbulent childhood. Academically driven. Smartest girl in that country. He called me. 

C liked me because I was smart. Low maintenance. And engaging. I was not into nagging him. I was OK with the arrangement. 

C also liked me because in his mind I was pure and wholesome. I worked, had a family and I had him. There was not much else to discuss. I didn't have to disclose anything more than that. 

Only one person in this world knew me and all my secrets, and it would be B. But B had chosen to vanish at the moment. So C would do. 

C sang well. In the evening, after dinner and after we got back he played Frank. And he sang along. He sang in the morning as well. He had a nice voice. He was theatrical. In his early days he performed in a theatre in San Francisco. 

The collective WE had been spending all of our recent time in every part of San Francisco except for the Outer Sunset area. As we drove pass Taraval street we saw a million new Chinese restaurants popped up. Taraval street was changing. From inner to outer Sunset. To our surprise. 

We wanted to try every single one of these new restaurants. C would always order Kung Pao Chicken. I would always apologize in my native tongue to the waiter about us ordering a "whitie dish."

I had dated many men in my life. Only C wanted to have Chinese food with me. It was a bit unexpected, really. But I suspected that it was his way of getting to know me, through every Chinese restaurant we ate at and every Kung Pao Chicken he ordered.

I had entered a steady relationship, with C. Someone who was consistent, stable, emotionally unavailable, yet, who cared about me genuinely.

But I wondered if there was ever going to be any passion. I missed that the most. It was perhaps a nice break. A break that I needed before a real relationship would be allowed to happen. 

Or, was C the one? Was this all there was? 

Game

He made me go down on him. In the car, he whipped it out and then parked his car in the shade and got me to go down on him while he fingered me. I thought how cheap and skanky I was. In a business suit dress I had my garter belt and stockings on, and he had stripped my panties and bras off, and he was fondling me as I sucked on his cock. It was not the first time this happened to him.

"You must get off on it." I said between breaks.

"Maybe." He said as he continued to push my head down. I was going down on him in rapid pace and I could tell that he was getting excited.

By the time the job was done he was exhausted and happy and I was simply trying to find something to wipe the mess off.

"Let's go and grab a drink." He remembered my request of shooting the breeze. Even though half of the time after men had an orgasm, it would not be so exciting to talk. I followed him into a non descriptive bar, and we ordered a couple of drinks. I paid some.  We talked about nothing for a while. I asked him to be my life coach and career counselor. I thought he'd be great because he and I were in the same field, and he was a prominent guy in my industry. He was older and looked his age. I had father issues so this worked out great. I wouldn't say sex was ever great with him, but I loved and craved for his attention because of my father issues.

We had to go on separate ways. I didn't really know what we'd do next, nor did I care. It was not important whether we saw each other again or not. But I did know his type. I had met many men of his type. They would eventually come back to me for short time comfort. I would never really fall for them.

It was a fun game. And it only took one to get bored, for the game to end.

About me

In my twenties I had one outrageous weekend where I slept with five men. I was in San Jose that day, for some reason, and as I drove from San Jose back to my townhouse in the upper peninsula, I had stopped in several places along my way and met up with boys I dated at the time. I would stop to say hi, we'd have sex and I'd then get dressed and continued my journey up north until I got home. As I returned home I saw a boy who I was dating in his place, and then I drove into city that evening to see another man. By the weekend ended I slept with all five men. The act of sex was not that significant, it was not even that memorable by all accounts. I couldn't even remember all five of the men I bedded that day, but I did remember there were five men that weekend.

I had tried to be with several men at the same time, but I found that being with all of them became tiring, and eventually I decided to date one man, but then I got bored, so one day I just stopped seeing men. I communicated with them still, and I kept these men around but I never did find them to be that interesting. Eventually I stopped dating for a while. I kept my life busy. Monday through Thursday evening I worked out of town, Friday I tried to chill and Saturday I often went on dates but I didn't throw myself at men, I kept it at a distance. Since I was young, and professionally successful and cute, it was easy to meet men. By the time I turned twenty six, it was clear to me that I had nowhere else to advance to but to find a good boy to get settled with and get married. Career, check; money, check; looks, check; adventure, check; real estate, check; friends, check. The list was a full one and it represented my life in a nutshell: a series of goals to be accomplished, and when all of them were accomplished, I wanted something else.

I wanted not just companionship. I wanted a soul mate. Someone who was open and wanted me in his life, as a full time partner. I wanted a partner.

When I met women these days, old or young, random strangers or friend of friends, they often complimented my jewelry or clothes, shoes or nails. There was always something that they admired, they wished to have and they wished to be. I thought that they reason that they liked me so was that I was self assured, and I wore things well. I was finally confident and calm. I thought, boy if I knew what I knew when I was twenty six, I would not have rushed to grow up. I would have been just fine being the way I was. I had no reason to grow up so fast, to be an attractive middle age woman so fast, I wished that I didn't jump into this adulthood life style that fast.

One day perhaps I would be someone I would be proud of. But until that day, I would be someone every other woman looked up to, and wished that they could be.

Goodbye

"Send a few photos."
"I'll send a couple."
"What are you doing this weekend?"
"Golf on Saturday. Then I have to pack. Mostly clothes. Euros, cables and charging units."
"How many women do you have?"
"I have women friends. No one I'm intimate with."
"Why not?"
"Don't know."
"How did you end the last relationship?"
"Just got tired. Not excited about it any more."
"Did you or did she end it?"
"I did. I just said no."
"How did she take it?"
"She was not happy. But there isn't anything we can do."
"Are you still married?"
"Separated."
"I'm married."
"You are barely. Technically maybe."
"You must meet women all the time."
"I do. I meet them often."
"How did you meet her?
"On a plane."
"Nice. How often did you see each other?"
"Maybe twice a week."
"Maybe that's too often."
"It just did not do it for me. Plus I'm busy. Work. Children. Social events."
"Yes I know you are busy."
"How did I do?"
"You did well. Better."
"I no longer have to pretend."
"You never had to pretend. People only pretend because they are worried about what people think of them. You did not have to worry."
"I was worried. I didn't want to be viewed as a slut."
"You and I both know you are not sexually inexperienced."
"But I did not want you to think that I was TOO experienced."
"Now we know."
"Now we do."
"I am thinking to give them walking papers. I'm bored."
"You should if you are bored."
"I'm tired of saying yes. I'm tired of asking when. I'm tired of them. I'm more excited about seeing my girlfriends."
"Where do I go from here?"
"Only you know."
"When are you going to retire?"
"In three years."
"Then what?"
"Don't know. But I don't want to work in the corporate world anymore. Golf? Charity? House in Ireland?"
"You should visit me in France. We can swap houses."
"Maybe."
"Want to go kiddo?"
"Sure."
"Have a good trip."
"Thanks."
"I want to see you when you get back."
"I know you do."
"I want to be the person you are intimate with."
"It's my goal."
"I know."


The world isn't black and white. It is not even gray. You think this is finished, but it is not. You think you are over something, someone, but you are not. The only thing that is for certain in life is death. They say longing is just love not realized. But what if you no longer can afford longing, then what do you have left? We put ourselves out there, to be loved, to love, to expect a change that would make ourselves whole, but what if all of that was just a way to mask what we fear the most, the loneliness and the fear of no one would love us the way we want to be loved? What if you knew that you could love the person and give it a go, but no one, not even he believes you any more? What then?

This was how we met

When I saw him last, I was in an disarray. I had lied to him. I told him that I had not been with anyone for a long time. He was mildly infatuated with me, he took me out and called me "sweetie". We went out for dinners and met up in hotels. He paid mostly but he was also very demanding of me. We never had vaginal sex, he was into other things. I was fine with it, I was not hurting myself, but I was sad because my affection for him was never quite as strong as my love for my boyfriend. I thought one day I'd overcome it, and transfer my affection for my boyfriend onto him, but it couldn't, and wouldn't happen. I couldn't force it even if I tried.

But he occupied my mental space. He was tall, handsome, had blond hair, and blue eyes. He grew up in upstate New York and went to a private college in Boston, he spent most of his adult life in Boston before moving to San Francisco. That was my M.O. Every man I dated since the twenties went to college or grad school in Boston. EVERY SINGLE FREAKING ONE OF THEM. I didn't try to find them. They tended to find me.

We met at a golf tournament. I remembered that day clearly. I had just spent an evening with my then boyfriend at a hotel. He had someone staying over at his place, so we stayed at a hotel near my work. He had not seen me for over a month. I was quite excited about seeing him. We spent all night fucking, or nearly all night. I was so incredibly in love with him then. I was frantic just a few days before, because he had completely forgotten that it was our one year anniversary, and he had not corresponded with me for nearly two weeks. As usual, he was out of town. When I met up with him I was emotionally spent and charged at the same time. The next morning I had to leave before 7, and I remembered leaving him and feeling a sense of loss, as I sensed again it was going to be the end. I knew because I couldn't handle my own emotions. That afternoon I met this guy, this good looking blue blood North-easterner who had gone to college in Boston, and who was a partner at a prominent firm in downtown San Francisco. He had a white polo shirt on and he stood next to me as I chitchatted with other clients of mine, who flew in from Boston to attend this event.  I had left him that evening feeling unimpressed, because my mind was elsewhere.

A few weeks later I ran into him again. It was at an Americas Cup event. He was there when I walked in and he smiled at me. I knew he had remembered me but I was not sure what the smile meant. Since then things got a little murkier as I went into auto pilot mode. I saw him and I saw my boyfriend at the same time. At times I used him to offset my complex emotions with my bf, but being with him sort of reminded my relationship dynamic with my bf. Perhaps the worst thing of all was the fact I couldn't bring myself to be honest with him.

I couldn't tell him that I had others. I was afraid of being judged. I was afraid to be thought of as a slut. A professional, successful, submissive, slut. So I lied.

When I met up with him again that evening, I had left my past behind, and he had just gotten out of a relationship. I had stopped lying.

"I'm sorry." I began to tell him things.

"Why? I don't understand. I would not have cared."  He said while yawned. 

I was boring him. 

He reached under the table and tried to touch me. I had worn work clothes. I didn't expect he'd meet up with me. It had been too long. He had gotten slightly order. I still liked him. I knew that I had father issues. He was still the kind of guy I liked: always in control, paid for the bill, expected me to behave certain way, and ignored me whenever he was too busy. He was always busy, like my now ex-boyfriend. 

I stopped him. I was not interested in going anywhere with him. Sexually. Not that evening anyway.

I needed time. 

I needed space and distance, not from him, but from other entanglements.

I didn't want to be viewed as a slut.

He wanted to know how many I was seeing at that moment.

I asked him to qualify it by giving it more of a definitive period.

"How about in the last one month?" He gave me a time table that I could work with.

"Then, one person." It was an accurate statement. More or less. 

"How do I say goodbye?" I asked.

"You just say no." He gave me guidance.

"I have trouble saying no. It's such an inertia. I get into a pattern. Even after I lost interest. I still just keep on going and talk myself into staying." I said.

"That's one thing good about getting older. You do what you want. You don't have to do anything" He continued.

"Can you score some free Americas Cup tickets?" I asked an irrelevant question but a good one because his firm sponsored it and they had a huge center viewing stage that could take you to the race pretty close to being right on the water.

"Maybe. Are you a client?" He yawned again. He was getting tired. And he knew that I was not a client. 

He told me that he had been up since 4:30 AM. 

He was to leave for New York, then Boston, and then Ireland, and then back to Boston for a week.

He called me when he was in New York and Boston before. He used to text and talk all the time with me. Then I was distracted. He was traveling. Like most of my relationships with men, we drifted apart. But apparently he remembered those fleeting moments.  He told me that we had met at Absinthe on Hayes for dinner one night. "We went out for a few months." He told me.

All I could remember was that sadness  that washed over me when I felt that I could no longer put myself out there for that one person I cared about. 

Why did men become footnotes to women? Why couldn't we just remember every single one of them?

Why did they always seem to remember those earlier moments, the good moments? 

Perhaps that's the fundamental difference between men and women.

Men remembered the beginning. The magical moments women came into their lives and made an impact. The intensity that followed that initial meeting. 

Women remembered the ending, the precise moment when she felt that she no longer mattered to him, or he no longer mattered to her. 

My ex would tell me the first date we had over fifteen years ago, how we met at a white water rafting trip, and how he asked me out that same weekend. I was a young girl in a white dress without underwear.

But I only remembered that one morning when he kissed me goodbye in a hotel in Salt Lake City, and said, "See you in two days in San Francisco." I was sad that morning, because I knew he lied. I knew he would not see me. I returned to San Francisco in two days. He did not email. He did not call. I did not see him. It was the end of our first go around. I was 25 at the time. he had just turned 33.

"I met you at a golf tournament. Then a few weeks later, I saw you at the Americas Cup. We then went for dinner at Perbacco with your friend." He said as if twas yesterday.

I tried to tell him that was over a year ago. He said, "No, the golf tournament was September. Now it's only July." 

I stared at him and tried to remember something intimate, anything, yet I remembered nothing, nothing at all. 

The multi-relationships

I have not heard from him for some time. This isn't saying much given that there was never really any commitment, but it's an inertia. Having been with him for nearly two years and having promoted this relationship into a main side relationship in my head had completely changed the outlook of this so called relationship. In all fronts, it has become more than just a pretend make-believe, it becomes a bit real, and with real emotions and feelings. That does not mean that I want to change anything, if anything it's my own emotional adjustment that needs to be made whenever the balance is tipped.

I've been stuck in this mode forever now. I have to regulate my emotions whenever I start to feel more than I should. But in my heart I believe that I belong to him. With him. I am whole when I am with him.

The prolonged separation intensified my longing for him.

I get a text from E saying that he was sick. He was being apologetic for not seeing me - we've not seen each other for sometime but I was not really counting the days we did not see each other, in part I do't feel much about him, it's also an inertia that i continue to see him. He's fun and he makes me happy but it's always short lived.

I talk to C regularly. Because he's there and he's easy to talk to. He wants to go to the beach and watch the sunset. I protest. That's like a date. A real date that involves sunset and everything. C kicks it back to me and says "Whether it's a date or not, the sun will set." It's true. C calls me adoringly "Hi Monkey." He says that I have a squeaky voice, distinct, and he calls me "Darling" and "Monkey." When did I become someone's darling or monkey? I like that about C because he treats me like a kid. I have serious father issues and I get turned on when men treat me like a little girl. However messed up that is. C makes me things and cooks me dinner and treats me like a princess. I always had a thing for older men. it's in my DNA.

D is back. Sort of. D wants to get together but as usual he does not make a commitment but I also do not care one way or another to see him. I like him but only on a limited basis. Plus his intention with me is to have sex. I am not sure if I want that with him. Not exactly ranking high on my agenda.

I feel a sense of urgency to get together with B. He settles me. He tends to disappear and reappear. It's not clear to me that he is truly traveling a lot or if he just avoids me. I suspect a little bit of both. When I text him or call him and not get hold of him, and when he does not call me back, I begin to think he does not care about me. I sent him one more email and he then responds back and say he can't get home early enough to see me. It's an old story. It never changes.

I never pretended to know the answer. But I do know that I have some very conflicting emotions about everything. At the very least, I recognize that my feelings for B is never going to change for as long as I shall live. He's the center of my world and in this world I have decided as long as he wants me to be in his world, I will give in.

Until someone else comes along that would make a difference in this dynamic, I will likely be stuck in this mode.

River runs through it

There was this river that ran through the side of the house. There were lilacs, grown and cared for by the commune, there were flowers, unknown flowers, native to this part of the country, and there were honeysuckle bushes, climbing on the side of the stone walls. There was a small door, painted light blue, when you opened it, it took you to the dark basement, there was an old well at the center of the basement ground, now covered by a large wooden door that got taken out from this house, presumably as part of the renovation by the previous owner, the Englishman. The well, from what I heard, still had running water underneath. I was afraid of opening the wooden door, to look into the well. 

When I was young, there was a well too, in the courtyard where I lived with my grandparents, and we’d fetch fresh water from it. That was the far east. This was the French countryside.

There were rose bushes climbing on the side of the garage, now converted into a work shop, with tools for the garden stored, and winter wood. A Polish family lived not far from the town, and they delivered wood during the winter to heat up the house. Burgundy slabs were sought after building materials these days, this house had stairs made of Burgundy stone slabs, polished and worn. There were also natural oaks flooring in the living room, painted dark brown. The exposed wooden beams seemed to have seen better days, but it looked natural with those French windows. Are those called French windows or just windows? After all, this was France, Burgundy, to be exact, which was 200 kilometers southeast of Paris, a touristy town by Canal Nivernais, I had sailed in that canal before - it was how I came to know this part of the region.

The house was built on the side of the canal, the front of the house faced the meadow, across the meadow is the canal; a river ran through it, the back of the house faced the upper garden. The side of the house opened to a green lawn and flowering trees. Apples and pear trees grown in the upper garden, along with another shed that stored more wood. Oil heating was rather expensive. The house was filled with wooden antique stoves that were used to heat up the house. Each room had one, or it seemed. 

Burgundy cherries were famous. I felt that it needed a cherry tree, in the front of the house. I should plant one.

There were four bedrooms,  and two bathrooms. I wanted to build a wine cellar in the basement, and convert the attic, so that we could use it if we ever needed it.

We met too late. Don’t you think? We met when I was no longer a kid, you no longer free. We met a little too late but there was this weird feeling best explained as love flowing around the air for a while. I was convinced I made all of that up, I kept on thinking as time went on,  we’d realize this was a mistake, and you’d move on, and I’d forget about you. 

This was a silly episode. When I found this place, this beautiful, remote rose bush filled ancient stone house in another continent, I found my home but my worst fear came true. I still loved you. I could run away, move away but I still needed you. You couldn’t possibly know this, you must not know this.  You mustn’t. I must keep what I feel to myself and eventually everything would fade away.

You never existed in my life, and I never existed in yours.

We must not talk about this, we must not remember this. You must leave me because I could not tear myself away from you. You came into my life to teach me that I could still love again. I was scared of loving you. I was scare of love. But when I did love, I couldn't be myself again. I was devastated, by my sorrow, weakness, and my lack of control of emotions.

Love, came too late. It was too late for you or for me. 

We must part ways, and I'd eventually believe that you never existed in my life. 

B

When B came into her life she was unable to recall much about her past, she reverted to a familiar person, a friend, a person whom she was once upon a time involved with, as her confidant, that was B. B decided to step up to the plate, and against her wish he fucked her. She was not exactly refusing him, but she was not exactly agreeing with him.

He had an agenda. He wanted to expand his entourage of women that he bedded; she did not know that of course. She just wanted to feel something, and that something turned out to be blind love. She wanted to feel what it was like to fall in love. They each had an agenda. Her agenda was more ambitious and self-inflicted. His agenda was more conniving because he never told her that he had others. She was innocent and naive for someone her age, but that was before she had her memory unblocked.

When B and she started to develop intense emotions, she started to gain her memory back. She realized that she was often looking for love in her early 20s, and she was mildly infatuated with B back then. When B left her the first time, or, rather, when they drifted apart, she was able to move on without much thoughts because she had others in her life to take her mind off B.

When she felt that B was lying to her, about his relationship with others, she decided that it was time to reenact her old persona, by gaining her upper hand back, by starting to see others. She was rather conflicted at first, to start seeing other men who met her in different functions, but she then rationalized that B had broken her heart, and therefore, the only way to keep B in her life, was to become invested in other relationships. This was her old strategy.

There was a fundamental problem with her behavior. She still loved him. His notorious behavior, his constant, long standing absence made her missed him even more. Whenever she grew emotionally close to him, he pulled away, whenever she was less emotional with him, he seemed to wanted her closer.

This constant push and pull dynamics fueled their relationship and also destroyed her faith, her trust and her hope. Her initial plan had backfired. The problem with love was that when a woman like her fell in love, she was the most passionate and devoted person in the world; but when she felt betrayed and cheated, she became the most vengeful person. She wanted to see him suffer as she once did, and she wanted to make him to pay for his lies and deceptions.

Never once in her life that she wanted anyone to feel her pain as much as she did with him. She told him that she fucked others. She did not want to be his any longer. She still loved him. Part of her remained that innocent, fragile, and faithful person; yet part of her became this woman who threw herself into other men's open arms without much thought about him.

She would have stayed loyal and loving, she nearly did that for a year, but love and betrayal, passion and vengeance often came hand in hand.

Never ever be stung by a scorpion. They used to say.

She was one. She had a scorpion tattooed on her back when she had decided to rid of him, to demote him from a boyfriend to someone who may or may not be a friend.

She spent hours crying, talking to her therapist, until her therapist told her to shut up and stop seeing this man, B. So she stopped seeing her therapist.

If it was love, then perhaps B failed to recognize it, or knew how to handle it. B would not know what it was like to have loved and lost. She was convinced that B was heartless and self-serving. B had never cared about her, not when she was dead sick, nor when she was in need of emotional support.

With that she attempted to move on. But on occasion, she found the rare courage to fess up to B. "I miss you." She'd end all her emails like that for a while. As if it was a code word for "I love you". Except she dared not to write such words. She was afraid of what it would mean to B and how it would affect her.

She imagined one day he'd finally disappear for good.

And there would not be anything for her to do but cry for a long time. She'd dream of him. She'd wish that one day she'd see him again. She would want to stay in touch. She would want to know why he stopped loving her.

Then that feeling would stop. She'd forget about him just like she did for the first time fifteen years ago. She would stop loving him. She would forget about this turbulent, passionate, love-like relationship.

This time, it would be for good.


Desert Storm
I have always wondered, suppose I have loved and been loved, and you and I are separated by vast space and infinite time, the only sign of your existence is my fleeting thoughts and fading memory, and every shred of evidence, is gone, by your careful design - the not-so-accidental removal of notes, cards, photos, videos and that have served as reminders of you, me, and you and me, the sworn secrecy of the state of our being, the disappearing act that you have perfected over decades of sound practice. You are a creature of habit, and you are the king of your castle with many dark tunnels and escape hatches.

The day will come when the mirage will vaporize and you shall disappear with it permanently, and all I have left is the vast emptiness of dust, and the warning horn screaming through the desert air, urging the arrival of another sandstorm.