III.
Because I’m weird like that (and so many other ways), the question often occurs to me: Who’s having the best sex in the world?
No doubt, the athletes and actors of the world are having better (and far, far more frequent) sex than I, but I would venture any amount of money (and sex) that there is something about their sex which is too laquered, too impersonal, too constrained by vanity’s baggage - for their activities to contain the release which sex should promise.
It sometimes occurs to me that there must be a late fifty-something married couple in Siberia. Each of them is a hundred pounds overweight with pains brought upon from years of backbreaking labor, innard destroying alcoholism, and lung-rotting cigarette cartons - the husband has terrible BO, the wife doesn’t wipe her ass enough, and both of them have impressive facial hair. And this obvious lack of vanity leads them to have the most uninhibited, guilt-free, spiritually liberating, and orgasmically powerful sex since Odysseus’s first night home.
IV.
Well... what’s the point in concealing it when I conceal so little here? The spur for this series of posts was the passing of yet another one of my ‘relationshiplettes,’ and the most pained passing in quite some time. It’s become a remarkably consistent pattern in the last few years, though obviously with quite a few variations. Inevitably, some girl, far too pretty and smart to still be single, shows interest for reasons a bit past my understanding, and who am I to complain? We go out a number of times, chemistry seems there in google quantity, I manage (or so I think) to display my convivial public self, and conceal from her just what an unstable prick I am in private. But when it comes time for her to define the parameters (since I have no parameters, my life perpetually exists in freefall), it’s inevitably over before it begins, and thus the cycle of humiliation begins anew. I don’t even get enough dates to be broken up with for being the asshole they’d inevitably discover if they stuck around longer.
Much as there is a certain type of man,... there is a certain type of woman.. Some lonely and broken men crave the humiliation of women through sex, some lonely and broken women crave the humiliation of men through emotional attachment. Not all men or women, not even the lonely ones, conform to such pre-determined formulas. And surely there are broken men and women who cross the boundaries of these norms (or stereotypes) - men who too easily withdraw their emotional bond, women who too easily withdraw their sexual one, to those too suddenly found wanting. But inevitably, there’s no end of vulnerable beta males and females upon which they can prey. And prey like vultures they do. They take the emotional validation they need, and vanish without a trace.
If the Madonna/Whore Complex truly exists for the male archetype, then surely there has to be a similar complex for the female equivalent - for the moment, let’s call this female equivalent the Lucifer/Satan complex. Perhaps, just as men raised around difficult women have trouble respecting a woman who’d so defile herself by sleeping with him, perhaps women raised around difficult men have trouble respecting a man who’d so defile himself by being friendly. Her angel exists purely to intercede for support and comfort, while her devil exists purely for forbidden temptation, and surely any angel who so defiles himself by indulging in the forbidden must fall from grace.
Well, if this Lucifer/Satan complex exists, then I must be the least deserving angel in human history. But I have been that angel all too many times, and occasionally was even glad to be him - ... please don’t prove me wrong on that count girlfriends...
But this one, this one hit a far more central nerve than occurs to most women than I possess (double entendre semi-intentional). I don’t doubt I’ll forget about her in a week (onto the next crush...), yet I can’t deny, rarely in my life did I ever feel so betrayed by someone I didn’t even know a month ago. It felt quite as though I’d found, finally, a grand exception to everything I’d ever experienced about women, about relationships, and about my particular and endless reservoir of failures within them.
If only this once in my life (who am I kidding, I feel like this all the time...), I felt myself completely at ease, completely like myself, free to say what I liked, without judgement, and appreciated all the more for my candor about the particularly woeful chapters in the Tales of Tucker (and she didn’t hear nothin’ compared to what she could have...). Inevitably... this resulted in my thinking that maybe, just maybe, I’m not quite as broken as I think I am, and maybe, just maybe, it’s possible for the hyper-dysfunctional to be attractive to the hyper-functional. And if that’s possible, then perhaps it’s even possible for the hyper-functional to willingly take on a helpmate’s role to give some semblance of navigation through this lifelong fog which never lifts for some of us. But all the while, there she was, listening for the few minutes she wasn’t the one doing the talking, and as I disclosed away the smallest hint of my rather cosmic tzuris to this manic pixie dream milf, I was blindly, blithely giving away all that platonic poison to ingest - a mere side dish before the real poison courses, and she was already full - the possibility of something more meaningful already dead. Because I could not prove the lover, to entertain these fair well-spoken days, I was determined to prove the nebbish.
Who knows? Perhaps the passing of this particular relationshiplette was because of something she found on this blog. God knows, there’s enough incriminating baggage on this website to keep me single well into my seventies. But the women I seem to fall for are a dime a dozen, while the internet is forever. Should I reach my dotage, I don’t doubt that the whole story will be here - and there’s already material enough for a lifetime's writing - distributed in bits and pieces over the decades. It’s unfortunately possible that I may, hopefully in the far distant future, leave behind no legacy but this blog. But while I hope there will be many other legacies, this shall be enough. I existed, I lived, and I lived the best damned life I could. My story shall be told.
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