I should be having sex right now. More to the point, I should be having sex with a man who turns me on, who knows I put ice cream in the micro to soften it a bit and how I take my coffee (strong and with a generous splash of vanilla soy) who makes me want him slow and who will call me tomorrow.
Instead, I’m getting stoned. My drug, Lay’s Classic potato chips. I gave in, figure I could eat all the grapes, rotisserie chicken breast and cheese in my ‘fridge or do it right, do it fast with a handful of crack. My salty gems. So at 8:30 p.m., got in the car, drove to the grocery, stood in a short, sad line and purchased a crinkly bag. Once home, once I park my car in the community lot and begin the trek back inside, a neighbor calls from across a grassy square. “Goodness, look at you! Look so good…still losing weight!” Fuck.
Matters not. Like Tatum O’Neal scouring the streets of New York on Sunday afternoon, I need a fix ‘cause I’m going down. Figuratively, not literally. Sadly. Which brings us back to sex.
Truth told, all a girl has to do to get laid is go outside. The casual thing fills a need, a hole if you will. But I want to kiss and mean it in bed (or on the couch or on the floor of the bathroom or in the car). I want anticipation and butterflies. I want the the guitar player but he doesn’t know me and doesn’t really want to. He doesn’t read the blog (the quickest and most direct path into - and out of - me head), never called, won’t meet for an absolutely I’ll-keep-my-hands-on-the-table-I-promise chat about music and writing and literature and influences and who are you really. He doesn’t even think if me sexually. He chose the girl whose greatest contribution to art and society is the ability to pour, and it makes me want him even more when I shouldn’t want him at all. I don’t know him either, except for how it felt the sparse times we hugged hello/goodbye and he held my waist in his hands in the second before we parted or how he looked at me the first time we met and said, “I know you, don’t I?” or because he reads “The Economist” or that he’s a marketing whore just like me and knows how to sell his talent and shake the right hands or how I smile wide when I watch his hands and fingers flying over guitar strings and neck and how in awe I am in what he taught himself to do. It’s crushing when someone you want to get to know doesn’t want to get to know you back. I can theorize to the bottom of a crunchy, greasy bag and won’t find an answer. He doesn't want to know me, hasn't the time and desire to discover charming and deeply caring (doled out in small, special doses) and driven and exciting and mature and silly and worth it.
If I got him, maybe I'd throw him back. Maybe he knows that.
Maybe that’s why I’m not attracting something real.