Thursday, December 7, 2006

Looking Down The Well

When I left it last, the affair with The Clarinet Player was dizzily driving towards adead-end. Even while staring at him spread out on my bed, fully acknowledging that he is a sweet, good-hearted fellow with a satisfactory build, pleasantly skilled in the oral sex department, and a wonderful conversationalist, I knew it just wasn't it.

Not that I was or am looking for THE IT, as in Princess Bride-esque love or what have you, but more an animalistic it, a raw, chemical it, the kind of it that would lead me to call in sick to the office in order to spend more time between the sheets.

Yeah, this definitely wasn't it.

It was a darling tumble in the hay, as far as these go, because the sex was excellent and there was a very instinctual attraction. But it was like looking at an emptied candy wrapper. I had already marked the metaphoric "V" on the fantasy, and it left me content, but not addicted.

As he was still sleeping, I was thinking how to either elegantly break it off, or even better, keep him around on a low-presence basis. After all, neither of us had expressed explicit interest in a meaningful or even exclusive relationship.

Of course, when he woke up and I dangled this topic in front of him, all emo hell broke loose.

"Is that what it's about? You want to sleep with other people?" he asked, seemingly appalled.

I myself was squeamish, for the words "other people" when coined together in this manner, seemed to be an entry-level indication of a fledgeling relationship.

Oops, I did it again.

Hand me the aspirin, because this will leave me with a headache.

"That's not what I just said."
And it really wasn't.

I had simply made it clear that I was well on my way to celebrating a year of independence after finally ridding myself completely of what may turn out to be the prototype for the worst boyfriend ever, and that I was happy this way - on my own and at large.

As for exclusivity, we had never discussed it, so why would he expect it?

Fast forward to a week and some after the incident, and he is offended and backing away, brushing me off. I have enough people I regularly ignore in my life, I thought to myself, and picked up the phone to text him and make amends. Eran said that in this situation, much like with a frightened puppy, an SMS may be a safer choice than an actual phonecall.

Another brush-off, even when I text him in Hungarian(don't even ask). My efforts go unrewarded, until finally, this week, he rings me.

I don't know what the hell happened with us, whatever "us" was, but I know that just because I don't crave couplehood with him it doesn't mean we can't be cool with one another. I don't want him to take it that fucking hard, anyhow. I don't need more males in the 03 shit-talking about what a heartless bitch I am, thanks.

He says he's been having a difficult time, and that he didn't mean to ignore me or brush me off, and that he is trying to understand. We talk a little, and everything is swell, and I have a feeling that we may be walking towards an Oslo of sorts, a calm return to friendship with the open option of sporadic sexual encounters on the horizon, until it comes.

"So guess who I ran into?" he says.

"Benny Sela?" I venture. "I hear he's been trolling around our parts."

"No," he says slowly. "I ran into your ex."

"Who cares?" I scan my nails for any visible polish chips while praying for the subject to magically change.

"Well, he came up to me and we had a little talk..."

I already know I am about to get pissed off. The question is, to what degree?

"And...?" I milk him.

"And he said I've wronged him, and that it's not cool. He made faces at me, you know. Said he would have acted differently."

"Really?! You don't say...How have you wronged him, exactly?"

"He says I should have...checked with him first."

At this point, not only am I extremely pissed at The Evil One, who has poked his pathetic head into my world again in the form of a social cockblock, but also at this poor, wretched fellow, for being passive enough to go along with this guilt circus. He is losing cred with me, and fast.

"REALLY! Wow. I feel like stock at a cattle show! It's been a fucking year, so I don't know where he gets the nerve to come up with this melodrama bullshit. Like you or anyone else need his permission for anything...You're not even that close as far as casual friends go!"

I am enraged.

"I know."

"So why didn't you tell him to just fuck off?" I wonder aloud.

"Because he made me feel weird. He was, you know, making faces."

"Yes, you've already mentioned that. Anyway, he's a dick. I'm sorry you had to put up with his hallucinatory aggro bullshit. Talk to me if you wanna do something over the weekend."

And with that, I hung up, suddenly understanding a whole fucking lot.
And I already have a feeling he won't call, because he is a coward.

God, just when I begin to think that maybe Matan has cooled off and perhaps had managed to get over that evolutionary hurdle to becoming a true man, he proves me oh-so-wrong. Just when I thought maybe sometime in the near future we can be chill with each other again, instead of just plain chilly, he flashes the grand neon "IDIOT" sign again. Way to go, asshole.

I wonder just how much sex I am being denied because of his big mouth and apparent concern for the ever-flimsy Male Code.

Which is just as well, considering the fact that my time with The Clarinet Player also taught me a few things about what I need, thanks to the process of elimination. While the sex with him was great, there were a few things that I had become accustomed to in these past few months, that were thrown out the window with The Clarinet Player.

The sex was very much Vanilla, and any straying on my part led to a shocked expression on his face, in the least. And so, when I disrobed in front of him one afternoon and sweetly instructed him to get down on his knees and eat me out, his reply was the kind that Baby doesn't like to hear from the boys.

And to top it all off, he suggested that instead, I do him the favor.

Honestly, men...Come on. Sex should never be an act where you're keeping tabs and scores. It isn't your bank balance. And nothing turns me off more than this attitude, or in general, displaying lack of sincere love and respect for the regal pussy, the very core of the fucking fields in which we flower.

As I put my clothes back on, I thought of R., who would get down on his knees without question. Now here was a fellow that had respect for the feminine abyss in all its glory. And he was better at spoiling it silly, anyhow.

And, true, with him I had achieved an outlet for exploring some more aggressive sides of myself, something that dear old Matan could never handle, by the way. I found myself missing him, at least where sex was concerned.

So after a week of waiting to hear a cry of manly affirmation from The Clarinet Player, or any evidence that would be contrary to his being a total chickenshit, I found myself knocking on R.'s door. As luck would have it, I was wearing boots, a known soft-spot.

If before I had simply enjoyed the overall vibe of dominance, now I had more motive to actually kick it into full gear. I guess Joni Mitchell was right about not knowing what you've got until it's gone, or until you find yourself engaging in highly standard, conservative sex. It also helped me realize that the mental block I had encountered with R. thus far, of his niceness getting in the way of me fullfilling the nasty with him, had quickly dissolved.

All it took was one band geek, and I am soaring.

No comments: