v u l v a l i c i o u s
possible futures and the unregretable past
We're a month away from five years apart. In 2013 I was getting ready to leave for Chicago, for fest, for someone I loved but didn't mean to. I can admit now that I was in love with him. That it wasn't fair to you. That for all my promises that you were the only one, it wasn't all that true.
Nothing ever happened with him, and nothing ever would. I can't tell if you know that now. But I wonder if he'd been willing would things have been different? Was I faithful? Was I true. No. Not really. I don't regret it, though.
In the end I wanted you to want me the way you had at the beginning: wholehearted sunshine love. I still think about those cards you wrote me and I know that you cared, but then I remember all the day to day and it breaks down. I would've stayed with you if he never came around, though. I would still be standing by your side in the sticky summer heat, hoping for one peach from the tree in the back, saved before the birds or the squirrels could get it.
Instead I'm here. It's not hot, but I'm sick, this too tired weight that clings to my limbs and makes it hard for me to move, to think, to be anyone I've known myself to be before. I wouldn't trade it, you know. Here for there. Now for then. Sometimes I get sad and sometimes I think I should want to, but in the end I'd rather be myself alone than a half person with you.
With anyone, really.
The thing is that if you zoom back to the beginning of this blog (17 years ago last month, I think), the theme that ties everything together is wanting. Sex and love. Pining.
It was a time when Sex and the City was Happening, and I was part of it. A blog about love and relationships and sex and desire for a person who'd seen so little of it. When I read back over those entries I'm struck by the ache and the need and the emotion. By how lonely I was and how hopeful. How young and how full of promise.
I feel so different now. I don't want anymore. Not like that, anyway. It's been a few years since my last proper in-person crush, the one I had on the darling creature with glasz eyes and the softest spirit. And I still love them. They come visit and my heart lights up, and they love me the way you love a friend who's laughed with you and encouraged you and I love them the same even though a part of me still wishes we could kiss just once to know what it's like.
But I haven't wanted to have sex in a while. Haven't cared to pursue it. And when my friend (with makeout benefits), who could remind me of Punk Rock Roommate in the right light if I wanted her to, offered I turned her down. It doesn't hold the appeal for me right now, like I had my mind set to something else, an old favorite meal on the menu at a restaurant, and when I got there it was all gone and I was offered this instead. And no. It's not the thing.
I didn't want to feel bad about it. But I do. I feel guilty for not wanting to have sex with her, and I think about what it would be like to change my mind. To commit half way. To top her because it's easy enough and would make me happy enough even if my heart doesn't want that. I've done it before. I just don't care to do it now.
Part of me doesn't want any of it. No sex, no relationship, no crushes, nothing. Fuck it all anyway. My life is a jumbled mess of sick days and pills and overdue bills piling up, of reheated leftovers and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches at 4am because I need something if I'm going to take my meds right now. The other day I thought to myself that the only thing I bring to a relationship is my ability to do things for someone else. To cook, to care, to fuck, to nurture, to leave notes and remember things.
Sick, I can't do any of those things. Not for anyone else.
Of course that's not right. It's not ok. I'm more than my ability to provide unconditional love and support. I'm more than standing at the stove and roasting beets because you love them or driving to get you a mcflurry at 2am because it's the one thing you want after your fever goes away. I don't know what I am, what else there is. I only know I'm more than that. That there's supposedly a reason to be with me that isn't the things I do.
And I guess if I'm honest, I really do want it all. Still. I want to be in love so hard it distracts me from everything else, laughing and silly whenever my mind wanders. And I want to be loved that way, so hard and so desperate. Poems on notes and instagram stories of flowers and coffee in bed with a kiss and a quiet "wake up, baby," on a day when we've agreed to blow up the kiddie pool and sit out back with our feet in it. I want kitchen slow dances and long talks about our pasts and the decision to move in together. I want someone to want me enough to ask me to marry them. To want to plan a party and invite our friends. I want to fight in the IKEA because we agreed we'd only get bedside tables and one of us (it's probably me) is refusing to put back a throw blanket. I want to disagree about the important things of us combining our lives and then talk it out carefully. I want to write it all down first. I want to do better. I want to hold hands as we drive across the bridge and sit in the sand at Fort Funston while we watch the dogs run around and Sal sits between us.
I want so much. I want that so much.
I want to desire someone so much that the weight of it sticks in my chest. That seeing their face makes me feel lighter. I want to feel them give underneath me while I suck their clit and fuck into them with my fingers curled and push-pulling and have them grab my hair to pull me into a greedy kiss. I want them to want to slap me stupid sometimes, leave a red sting on my cheek and then kiss it so soft I think I'll break. I want to be used without ever being taken for granted. I want to taste and taste and taste until we know each other easy and obvious. I want to come and then fall asleep biting their shoulder. Teeth marks and bruises and the softest brush of skin on skin when we wake up.
I'm not dead yet.
But I don't think I'm ready either.
I feel like I have a long way to go and no direction planned.