sex


crazy-cat

I am once again revisiting  the eternal struggle to wash my brain of  the boy.  To find the Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. The ups and downs of  this relationship have been documented in this blog for a long time.  I am not clear on why I cannot get over him. It’s been 2.5 years of continuous and alternating pain and joy.  It’s like fucking Brokeback Mountain for heterosexuals.  We’ve gone from being sorta together (boy don’t do monogomy), to being totally cut off, to being fuckbuddies, to being homemade porn stars, and now back to crazytown.  He has a new fling. A freaking 26 year old. Not that hot, but obviously she’s got something he wants for now.  I am having fucking NIGHTMARES about it all. 

While the boy is charming and funny and smart, his life is a total trainwreck.  I should be glad to let someone else deal with his drama for a while.  Would I really want him if he was mine to have? Why am I so attached? So obsessed?  There is obviously a connection there that strikes a deep and primal chord in me. The only way I can explain it is that pain and drama are so heavily ingrained in my psychological makeup, that he is the perfect fit for that very self defeating, masochistic chink in my brain.  He fills a part of me that thrives on this stuff and it makes for a very powerful addiction.  Add to that:  I just love being around him. And the sex is perhaps the best I’ve ever had. The perfect trifecta for addiction. I feel like it is going to kill me. I cannot let that happen. What the hell?  I need electro shock therapy. I need to move to another country. I can’t believe I am back here again. I guess I never really left.  Writing about it is therapy for me. In which case, I should be doing a lot more writing……..

marty51

Damn you,  Dan Fogelberg….. that stupid grocery store/Christmas song made it impossible for me not to title this post as I have. Spilling her groceries and laughing till you cried.  Why would that be so funny? I never got that schmaltzy song at all.

This past week I ran into two old lovers. And let me say I detest the word “lover”…. totally grosses me out.  At any rate, these were friendly encounters. The first was indeed at the art museum. When we were together K. was 50 and I was 34. He was a fairly well known and respected artist. I was desperately looking to horn in on the Seattle art scene having just moved here from South Carolina (i.e. everyone assumed I was a dumb cracker, an entertaining oddity, or both) and was out to  find some validation in the hipster culture of  Belltown, one of the city’s enclaves of all that was artsy  and edgy. Having been somewhat adopted into a certain clique as the resident Southern whacko, I had already been through a cartoonist, a struggling actor, a few musicians, some poets, a few writers. Let’s just say I was starting to make a name for myself in Belltown but not for my artistic talents. K was a semi-regular in the tavern that I had adopted as my virtual living room. When he asked me to lunch I was floored. That turned out to be the longest lunch of my lifetime. We went to a Vietnamese restaurant and then back to his place where we drank tea and talked all afternoon, then moved on to dinner and sake and I ended up staying the night and then not leaving for the next 8 months or so. When K. actually fell in love with me I could never trust that he took me seriously or that he was not a little ashamed to be with me. I had a lot to learn. He took the picture above, a little blurry and worn after all these years. That’s my dog Sparky with me. Best dog ever in the history of the world.

K  lived in a huge loft in a decrepit old building in Pioneer Square, which was pretty much where one lived in the early 90’s if one was a serious artist. (Nearby Belltown was also acceptable, but had fewer lofts.)  It was not a legal living space but it did have a rustic full bath and he had made a cozy little kitchen in a corner where he concocted delicious Asian dinners on a tabletop gas stove. We’d walk to Uwajimaya, the Asian market,  and buy exotic ingredients for our meals, huge bottles of sake, Japanese tableware. He was very much into the Asian aesthetic and, in fact, was the lighting director for the city’s Asian art museum. At age 50, K. was in great shape but had a face that reflected a lot of living. A face with a view, to quote Mr. Byrne. Craggy yet handsome in that Willem Dafoe kind of way, with long gray hair worn in a ponytail. Usually in jeans or wide wale cords, shiny black cowboy boots and a black leather jacket. With his sparkling blue eyes and easy laugh, he was iconic to me. Still shaky and uncertain, finding my feet in this new world,  I couldn’t believe he loved me.

We spent most of our time in his loft cooking, eating, reading, doing the NY Times crossword puzzles, watching Kurosawa films and listening to music. This was heady stuff to a Southern girl who had yearned for Bohemia her whole life. We were rarely seen together in social settings. I think we went to dinner one time at his friends’ home. I was very conspicuously out of place. And I was very uncomfortable and paranoid.  The seeming secrecy of the relationship made me all the more certain that he harbored veiled shame for being with me. When I revealed our relationship to a woman who was a real player in the Belltown scene she laughed in disbelief. What the hell was he doing with me? It seemed absurd to her, almost unbelievable.  I was, after all, an anomaly. A hanger on, a mascot. Not a true member of the In Crowd.

In time, like all things, the relationship went sour. Turned out  K. had bad mommy issues and was  extremely jealous.  Mommy was a bit of a tramp when he was young, dad was shot and killed in a bar fight. Living with a somewhat loose single mom in the 50’s had taken its toll on him. Women were suspect… secret sluts. I certainly fit that mold. There was also the fact that he had a vasectomy, I wanted children and he did not. I was still young enough and wild enough that I liked to spend time in the bars with my friends from time to time.  On one occasion, K. stormed into the bar and tried to drag me out, cursing and accusing me of hooking up with another guy there, who was actually his friend and who would never mess with me. He ended up punching a telephone pole in his frustration and anger, cutting his hand badly.  I was amazed at the intensity of his jealousy.  Things came to a halt shortly thereafter but I pined away for him for quite a while. These were the days when answering machines had cassette tapes in them and you could record your message forever if you wanted. So I did. I would end up at midnight, lonely and drunk and wishing him back in my life, playing some beautifully depressing song on my stereo. I’d dial his number and just leave the receiver by the speaker so he would hear the music.  I don’t remember how long I kept at this ritual but it was definitely longer than necessary. Naturally, he never responded to any of that drama.

Eventually I found someone else and K. faded into the past. We had a few random encounters over the next years. I tried to revive the relationship at one point even after I was (unhappily) married and had my baby but he was fairly strident in his refusal to engage me on any level.  Last week I was at the downtown art museum with my daughter, now age 13, and there he was…now working as the lighting director….. que impresivo!!!  Approaching 70, he looked a little worse for the wear but not that much different.  I was surprised to see him walking his very recognizable confident walk  through the gallery where I was searching for the kid and he seemed equally surprised to see me.  Apparently  he thought I hadn’t  lived in Seattle since I left over 10 years ago for library school. Although I had spied him walking down the street from time to time over the years since I’d returned, his luck had finally run out. Here we were face to face.  I wanted to introduce him to my daughter but she was nowhere to be found.  I asked if he had ever married and no, he hadn’t. We chatted briefly and that was that.  Then I set out to find the kid, bemused and nostalgic as I wandered through the museum.

Later in the week, another ex came into the library with his wife and two adorable daughters.  I’ve run into him there several times over the past year. We were never very serious.  H. wasn’t much of a talker and I was a nervous chatterbox in his presence. Our relationship consisted of pretty much nothing other than fucking. After seeing way too many David Lynch films, I asked him to take me to the seediest hotel we could find out on Aurora Avenue (famous for street hookers) and fuck me. He willingly obliged. It was not very exciting in the end, as I was fairly distracted by the nasty condition of the room and the screaming and fighting that was going on behind the paper thin walls that surrounded us. It was definitely NOT hot.

But today, seeing him with his wife and kids, our conversations are easy. I’m not that nervous little chatterbox anymore and age has loosened him up a bit. He is still gorgeous to look at, which is what drew me to him in the first place.  I like him now. I don’t think I really did back in the day.

I could go on and on about old lovers, (again..that word…);  their numbers are legion.  Most were forgettable, some still haunt me.  And this brings me to my greatest fear. I fear I will end up strapped to a very uncomfortable mattress in some random, shabby nursing home. A babbling old lady shouting out obscenities and detailed descriptions of the sexual exploits of my youth as the orderlies change the rubber sheets on my bed.  I am resolved not to let this happen. Guns, gas, razor blades, pills and booze. They’re all there for a reason.

NEWSFLASH:  Just as I was finishing up this post, I received a notice on Facebook that another old flame, J, had sent a message and had friended me.  I haven’t seen or heard from him in at least 13 years. We lived together for several years in Charleston, SC  when I was in my late 20’s. The whole thing resulted in a visit to the loony bin for me. A rough one. Too long a story to go into at this point.

Irony is alive and well. I think it’s my middle name.

I am reading two books right now and have a stack of others to read. Dennis Perrin’s “Savage Mules” and “Her Last Death”, a memoir by Susanna Sonnenberg. I’m a sucker for dysfunctional family memoirs… working on my own, in fact. But I really don’t read like I used to since this internet thing started taking over my life. Normally, I would have read these books in a matter of days but now it’s taking weeks to slog through them. When Myspace appeared on the horizon I felt compelled, as a Teen Services Librarian, to see what it was all about. Before I knew it, all the librarians were on, many friends were on and I was obsessed. I met a couple of people via Myspace who I would consider cyberfriends. One, a single mom in England with a teenage son. A writer of sorts herself, we supported each other through some boyfriend dramas, kid dramas, even made plans for her to visit me in Seattle.  She has since become involved happily with a man and thus, the travel plans and our communications have trailed off a bit. Which reminds me I need to drop her a line.

I also became a fan of Haley Bonar, an incredible musician from Minnesota via Myspace music and when she came touring in Seattle and played the Tractor, she knew me from our online connection… I felt the warm fuzzies that only the intertoobs can provide… Look! Our world is indeed a better place for all of this technology. I befriended another musician in Ohio. For a while I only knew his name by checking out  the roster on his band’s page. Nonetheless, we were pretty tight for a summer there….. his music inspired me and he turned me on to some other great musicians. His mom is a librarian so he naturally took me into his circle of friends… sorta.  We still touch base from time to time. He’s a real person and a good person to boot, married to a smart documentary filmmaker, doing good in the world. I also met a young, extremely bright and politically minded young woman living in Lebanon. She won’t show her face on the internet which leads me to believe she is also alarmingly beautiful. She blogs on Myspace still….. I have tried to convince her to expand but I don’t think she has gone beyond that platform. She blogs about Palestine and the atrocities the Israelis commit daily and the encroachment into Lebanon. Powerful stuff. I’m proud to know her.

On WordPress, I met and befriended a young woman blogger who is  in her mid 20’s and who blogged mostly about her sexploits and depression related to her eating disorder, drinking and man woes. We became fairly close, e-mailing, occasionally calling each other. Again, there were plans for her to visit Seattle and hang out with the old lady trapped in the adolescent’s body. And The Boy was also really into that idea, considering she is totally hot in that blonde big boobs kind of way. But she’s also really smart and her writing could blow any of us out of the water hands down. An incredible writer, if a little misguided on the life path. Now she’s pregnant and married and I wish the best for her, although her blogging has taken a decidedly different (non-existent) path, deservedly so. If you’re reading this post E. I would still welcome you to Seattle with your baby and husband…. you are incredible!! E. also introduced me to some other women bloggers who write naughty but well thought out and executed posts- smart women who enjoy sex and who think about life a little more deeply than most.  And now there’s Facebook.  Where I spend hours examining other people’s “status”, comments, photos, videos, lives.  Mining for curiosities.

Then there’s the male blogger I have become acquainted with over the past few years. A dark soul with an incredible mind  and posts that blow me away. All kinds of writing. Dark, funny, sexy. He’s challenged me to do more and better writing, and he also helped me through that really rough breakup with The Boy. Who knows what will become of that one….  it’s a wild card. My first true cybercrush!!! Perfect for the Teen librarian who can’t stop being a teen, despite the fact that she is mother to a teen.

All of these folks are real people. When I tell my friends who are not into the blogs, social networking, etc., they are a little suspicious about these activities. They question if these people are really who they say they are and not the proverbial dirty old men, sitting in dark, dank basements pretending to be blond blue eyed girls and boys. Get over it people. And join the 21st century.

But back to my original point. I am not reading like I used to read. Books, I mean. There’s a whole school of information professionals who will argue that reading is reading, whether it’s a phone text or the internet , other media or in book form. Still, I like the feel of a book in my hands, of being cozy in bed getting lost in a world conjured by type set on paper. I want to get back to that world. It’s another thing on my list of things to reclaim. That and my ice skating dream. But that’s another story altogether.

dream

She woke from her fevered sleep and looked around the room. All was dark. Still. Unfamiliar. Was she dreaming or awake? Always hard to tell in these early morning hours. Then she felt him beside her, his leg draped lightly across her thigh. For a minute there was something else,  pushing against her as she lay on her side. She pushed back with her hips and met it, inviting it to penetrate her. She could feel herself opening to it, willing it to come inside. Now… just. there.

The light changed.  She turned onto her back and opened her eyes. It was gone. He was gone.  She was alone on her tiny mattress on the floor.  The rats  in the next room scratched and gnawed  in their cage, crazy with the  futility of struggling against the wheel that had been clamped immobile for the night so she could sleep without the constant screech of metal on metal as they bounded forever to nowhere.  At the foot of the mattress the little dog’s paws trembled as he dreamed of running, chasing something he could never quite catch.

Throwing the covers off,  she crawled to the coffee table and retrieved her cell phone to check the time. 3:40 am.  It was a dream. She wanted more.  Making her way back to the mattress she settled again on her side as the dog repositioned himself under the quilt at her feet, his warm breath against her toes.  Her breath fell into rythm with his and she drifted off to sleep.

OK.. time for another installment in the I LOVE BEING A LIBRARIAN saga (that’s Sherriff Andy Taylor’s girlfriend Helen Krump up there if you didn’t recognize her).  We have a patron who I have named Fart Man. He is in the library every day (for the past 10 years) and farting the whole time he is in here. It is totally disgusting. He lives very close to the library, so it’s not like he has to hang out in here all day spreading his farts around… he could do it at home before he comes in….. He is an old hippie who probably eats a lot of beans and subscribes to the notion that farting is healthy. “Free farters”, I call these types. I think one should fart if one feels the need, just not continuously and in public and when  not in the restroom. Fart Man started my day off on a bad note.

Next a lady came to the desk and asked me to tell a man who was using his laptop and talking on his cell phone to please stop talking on his cell phone because he’d been on for like an hour droning on about some business deal. Of course, I did ask him to take it outside because that’s what I’m supposed to do. He was not a reall asshat about it. But then, about 30 minutes later another patron, a male, came to the desk and asked me to ask THE SAME GUY to quit eating nuts in the library.  Of course, you’re not supposed to eat in the library but eating some nuts is not a real offense to me. I punted. I made my clerk go over and tell him to cease and desist on the nut chomping. I couldn’t face going over to him and correcting his behavior again… why? I’m a whimp I guess.

A funny question but highly relevant during Banned Books Week:  An older gentleman asked me if there was a list of books that were attempted to be banned by “Sister Sara”  !!!! See link in my blogroll.

Then, the highlight of my day, my week, my life (??) came in the door.  A guy who’s been flirting quite heavily with me for the past few weeks. And he’s pretty hot. And interesting. Artist, musician, oenophile, clothing designer, looks a lot like Lenny Kravitz, extremely self-confident. He is moving to California tomorrow. Of course. But he asked if we could get together tonight, his last night in town, and “make a memory”….  that is some crazy shit.  Crazy shit. I declined but told him I’d send him an imaginary memory in an e-mail soon.  I wonder where that would have gone if he wasn’t moving…  at least it bolstered my flailing, gasping, staggering self -esteem.   Oh how we love working in the library.

So Elisabeth records her caloric intake on her blog. My caloric intake yesterday was: One piece of flatbread with pesto and goat cheese, and one serving of frozen lasagna, and a gallon of chardonnay. And a valium.

And then a blonde Swedish model or soap star, can’t remember which he was or what he was, other than extremely hot, and my best girlfriend in my bed with a package of Minty Fresh green condoms. I’ll delete this post later, but it is a bit of a purging experience to just post it and have my confessional. Just when I think I’ve done it all……. I find something more to do. Isn’t that the beauty of life? Too bad I have to work today and sit here at the reference desk feeling like shit on a stick. I can only imagine how I look to the library public……… oh dear……

So from time to time I check the State Sex Offender Information website just to see who’s lurking in my neighborhood. There are quite a few Level 2 and 3 sex offenders living within a 3 mile radius of my house. Not particularly surprising considering that I live in an okay neighborhood but it borders on some not so nice hoods. So here I am at the reference desk clicking through the names, looking at the pictures of the guys (yes, all guys) thinking “creepy”, “not that creepy”, “sorta cute for a sex offender”, etc. and then….. up comes a name I know. And a face to go with it. And a Level 3 offender, he is. Here’s the definition of a Level 3 Offender:

“These offenders pose a potential high risk to the community and are a threat to re-offend if provided the opportunity. Most have prior sex crime convictions as well as other criminal convictions. Their lifestyles and choices place them in this classification. Some have predatory characteristics and may seek out victims. They may have refused or failed to complete approved treatment programs.

Oh yes, it’s the guy I hooked up with shortly after splitting with my husband almost 2 years ago. We had an “arrangement” of sorts. He was pretty hot actually and agreed to come over once a month and have sex with me. He was strange – sad and sweet in a way, but hot nonetheless. 6’5″ and very lean/muscular with some tattoos. Just what I needed yes? No strings, just hot sex on demand. We never actually made it past the first month, however, because I met someone else and you know the rest of that story if you’ve been reading this blog for any amount of time. Level 3 continued to drunk dial me and crash my doorstep at ungodly hours for a while after I told him the arrangement was off. He was never scary or threatening… just sort of pathetic. He would tell me how beautiful and smart I was and why couldn’t we keep seeing each other??? Finally, I got it through to him that it just wasn’t going to happen. I moved from the apartment I was living in and never saw him again.

Until I saw his picture on the Sex Offender Information website, that is. The actual crime is not listed, simply referred to as an “out of state felony violation”…. My immediate reaction was pretty much revulsion, shock, horror, nausea. I had this guy in my house. I’ve always considered myself to have pretty good “antennae” when it comes to assessing people. I’ve been pretty lucky in life when it comes to picking up strangers out of the blue. But there he was. Mugshot and all.

After the initial revulsion and some deep breathing, I realized he was never any kind of threat to me. He was a lost soul. My antennae might be okay after all. I don’t know the circumstances of his crime. I never will. It could have been a real rape, or maybe he was falsely accused and convicted. Either way, I ended up feeling worse for him than I did before. Am I crazy?

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