Love To Love You
“I find his slight mess endearing in an artistic way, and welcome the blinding sunlight (no curtains present) as necessary Vitamin D and the possibility for lovemaking shadows on the wall.”
No matter how many months or days in between men, it always feels completely new. Was I on a camping trip in Matilija, California, did I fall down a giant boulder, crash my head into jutting rock then wake up in an emergency room? Then a year later, when I’m working again and more-or-less recovered (in physical health and serotonin, but not in long-term memory) and I see that surfer each week; watch his orange, fecund locks spiraling with the wind out at the break and learn him by his technique- -his silhouette enters my R.E.M. Finally we ride home together one evening, salty and high, and have an everlasting conversation. We fall for each other quickly over tacos and make actual surfing dates. We dance in the tide and summer won’t find an end.
But I didn’t hit my head.
Yet the amnesiac quality of Each New Fall is terrifying. I wish our psyches were a bit less enabling and perhaps poked us in grandiose ways rather than reminded us in soft whispers that this could have maybe possibly happened before.
Mel Beck wasn’t necessarily love at first sight. There was alcohol involved thus always difficult to discern true attraction. The next morning is always telling. I either wake up blinking so hard in order to probe my head to turn on, and look around at the squalor of his twenties’ apartment where mice are welcomed with open arms, and a snoring roommate is passed out on the ramshackled couch, or. I find his slight mess endearing in an artistic way, and welcome the blinding sunlight (no curtains present) as necessary Vitamin D and the possibility for lovemaking shadows on the wall.
I veer towards endeared; I defy the judgment creeping up and blame dehydration, also trying to remember the last time I ate a real meal. Lunch, yesterday…24 hours ago…I grunt softly in the stirring of early Saturday afternoon and he maneuvers into Prime Spooning Position. When I fit perfectly inside a man’s spoon, it is very difficult to consider him anything but a godsend. Perhaps later, outside when I’m walking home I may roll my eyes at my susceptibility, but for these precious moments, no fire, no matter how full my bladder is, no tree crashing through the window, can pull me out. The Spoon, combined with the oxytocin released after the sex I just had, is a deadly combo for Falling. I’m going straight down.
The sex I just had was relatively good for being a new partner-- learning the longitude of his loins while hungover. Along with the fact that we may have been on Mercury with the sunlight so close, we were exuding a thicker alien sweat and in the throes of our climaxes, I searched for faults in him and of course found none.
As I breezed through work that night at the restaurant, high on the endorphins from my recent romp, people were smiling and asking why I was being so funny. Also the synchronicity of how I glided plates away without anyone noticing, reappearing with the next dish so stealthfully I pondered becoming a Mystery Shopper or a Private I. The night sashayed by without the expected stress of a Saturday and oddly enough my feet weren’t tired. The ravenous nature of 11:00 never occurred. Instead of snatching all the bread I can find to go along with my penne alla vodka topped with grilled chicken I took a few bites of red lentil soup, for the nutrients. Just then I vibrated. A text. So soon? My insides started skipping and something jostled. He wanted to see me. I instantly knew I should make him wait yet, like always, forewent my intuition and began rampantly cleaning up the restaurant, like the time I learned my parents were returning within the hour rather than the following day and I vehemently cleaned the house littered with adolescent candy. Within an hour, I was back in his lair.
This continued every other night for about a month. We were stitching our way to coupledom; each thread woven with vigor as we weren’t afraid to discuss the deep stuff. He opened up about his mother’s young death and how it’s affected him. I admitted to some of my own insecurities after pinching my sides so hard black & blue marks confused me the next day. Yet it felt right. Different. As if the openness could cure any other existing or non-existing problem. Then a week later, I am broken up with. In an e-mail.