v u l v a l i c i o u s
Things you understand after talking and listening, and more that you simply do not
Everywhere. Everything. Or at least that's what it felt like.
If our conversation had been between our minds and bodies instead of our minds and voices, I'd feel spent from the make out energy. We'd have kissed afresh in the kitchen, the way I imagine new lovers do--tentative, tight, but moving toward something bigger. We'd have gone to the table and touched, fingers intertwining across the red and brown and cream, our fingers playing in the bright light. During the movie, there'd have been the arm around the shoulder; the light groping of people who want more. And then more, and more, kissing and tongues and hands swirling like obscene dancers.
The conversation, I think, was that good.
But was it? Was it really? Or am I moving it into a focus I desire?
Because we talked about desire. "There's no one cute here," she said. I disagreed, gave examples. "I need politics; I can't imagine having a relationship with someone who shops at the Gap." I nodded my head in understanding.
She says things that make so much sense, and I feel like a pretender agreeing, in spite of the fact that I do indeed agree with her. She shows me a documentary on riot grrl and I feel like I'm looking at her history. I think nothing but "she's been there; I haven't." I wonder if it makes a difference. More politics. More beliefs.
We want the same things, but not from each other. We want different things, and coexist peacefully.
I make three cookies and she tells me to use her toaster oven. "Maybe next time," I say. I tell her that when she talks about how life moves as you get older, it makes me sad. I can't look her in the eyes when she talks about how your heart goes numb. I mention the Carebears, because it makes sense.
She wants to fuck shit up. So do I. Do I? How? How does she know how? Who taught her these things? (But it was her, you see, and that's the beauty. She's self-taught, self-made, she's the kind of person I want to be.)
"I run away from relationships," she said. "I have to be cornered, no place to run." I feel my Self flutter at the edges like a flyer pulled up by a gust of wind. "I have to be pursued," she continued. To one who pursues, these are fighting words, the kind of thing that begs me to jump in and win her over.
"I'm cornering you into friendship," I say. "I'm very good at it." She laughs, and continues with something else. Maybe she doesn't know I'm serious. I worry about love and being alone. She holds her fears at a distance; she refuses to let people in; she has gotten good at alone, and all the beautiful things it carries with it.
We had an amazing conversation, and it has left me somewhere I don't understand, looking under rocks for clues of greater meaning. My cunt is a weary traveler that justs wants home.