The International Writers Magazine: Love Story
For the Thousandth Time: I met her in a Bar
A friend of mine, who’s plan it is to move here, San Francisco, CA, was visiting; she was working Outside Lands, a festival in Golden Gate Park. She understands my hopeless romanticism, and also the self destruction that follows it, but she never understood the type of women I choose to pursue.
I was sixteen and a virgin when I met Kelsie, and regrettably, due to some insecurity on my own part, I was seventeen and still a virgin when we parted. We met in summer school, which I attended every year due to an acute case of boredom, and also in avoidance to waste away in front of my t.v., which I still found time to do.
It was an art class, and aside from my habit of secretly writing poetry, none of us had any interest in art. We shared a table with tall stools and quickly started in on subjects well-suited for casual high school conversation, drugs, alcohol, sex, bestiality, and the sort. She mentioned, multiple times, the large size of her boyfriends penis, at one point actually tracing it out on a piece of paper, naming it, and accurately drawing veins, pubic hair and excretes pulsating from it…it happen to be a good size. The reaction from me she had hoped for, occurred, I was threatened, but not nesseserially because of this still captured ejaculating penis staring at me like a bulls eye, but more by her outspoken emphasize, and passion, that she held for her boyfriend; I was broken from her, and intended to shift interest toward her uglier friend.
Now in hindsight I realize she was trying to convince me of something she feared wasn’t true….it’s called a projection of thought, and is a torturing concept when you start to imagine all our actions, are actually reactions, and are simply projections of something we feel inside….ex. “That persons a terrible artist because they over play what it is to be a poet”, said by the same man who reads his poetry to random women in passing, attending the same open mic he feels comfortable at, and also not excepting criticism from any heart beat besides his own; a mirror for these people would shatter with truth….. moving on.
Our friendship began on the basis that she was already satisfied and happy, and not once did I ask myself the obvious “then what need am I for?” you can’t be casted for a part when the roles are already taken. Regardless of any common sense, which I consider myself highly dependent on, I found her at my side any chance I had. When she moved out with her boyfriend, I slept on the couch every other night, I became the unspoken, not well liked, roommate who would get drunk and laugh alone, or hide in Kelsie’s room.
After the first year I was collapsed in my emotions for her, I was incapable of separating my own well-being, from hers. The intense emotional pain I put myself through never seem to balance the moments impregnated maturely with joy and bliss. I use to wake in the living room to her moans of satisfaction, she’d curl in ecstasy as I peeled in exhaustion to this torture. I lost all my other friends, for when they weren’t fucking, they barely saw each other; and we spent every other waking moment together; and so it was this role I’d been casted for.
The questioning of my intentions started to bother her boyfriend, and eventually she had to give answers, so the most fitting one became the unfathomable truth, “he’s gay.” He ate the response and settled within it, it’s easy to convince someone of something they want so badly to believe in already..
I find were all a sort of hour-glass, eventually we consume enough, and have our fill, and about two years in to it, I was tired, she wore me out. This was after countless nights of holding her, over hearing her say she had a crush on me when we first met, going to sacramento to meet her parents at 2am when her boyfriend was talked out from going, and seeing in her eyes bright luminescence, like a lantern, absorbed with my fire.
I eventually grew up, and got my own place….
On her birthday I attempted to walk a flask of stolen whiskey into her hands, but our conversations were held with the ghosts instead, and few words actually got exchanged between us; the truest of words between lovers usually go unspoken in the silence before a kiss…. But we didn’t kiss, instead I left; and as she cried to herself alone, I shared my sadness with the crying stars and the moon, the forming mist and the rising sun, it was a sadness earned through the death of a building relationship that was mixed with equal parts, acceptance and denial.
I heard she slept around a bit after her fiancee hit her, and they split. Through the cracks of our city the mice chirp like birds singing songs of princess I knew, turned to gutter whores I could barely picture, even her friends told stories I didn’t want to hear; through multiple pairs of even the cleanest bridesmaid’s hands, the whitest dress will gather dirt regardless.
One night I finally meant to sleep, and not drink, while the party surrounded my room and the apartment above mine. I, by this time, had excepted my mourning as a natural process of growth, and this was the first inclination to my personal belief that we’re constantly experiencing la petite mort, and also, miniature uprising births, every second of our life, and constantly in an emotional ping pong game between mourning and celebration. I rested my head on it’s side lending one ear to the pouring rain, I remember it’s beat against my window, my heart was racing, and my mind fought to find peace. I was nearly half awake, dreaming of the thoughts that I entered sleep with, and as they formed into symbols I’d later decode into formidable thoughts, I heard a subtle and familiar roommates knock attempting for my attention.
“the doors for you Josh, it’s your friend from above.”
I hoped it was a slutty friend who’d been denied upstairs and would be satisfied just to rest with me, and my fight for serenity. I, still being a virgin, had no temptation with a heart in this shape, and nor did four play sound soothing.
I walked to the front door and slowly let the music of storm flow from outside, to in. She was soaking and cold, her tears hid beneath the rain, but her dissembled body could not find solace, and she was broken; she held in her appearance a perfect reflection of how I felt inside for the past 3 months. She fell to the tenderness of my arms, I absorbed her moisture, but she continued to soak..
We walked in the rain, and it reminded me of all the times one of us was sick, and the other would get sick too, purposely, just so we could watch movies and do nothing, but be sick, together.
We talked of mistakes and love, sadness and spite. We walked till we wore out the clouds, and they tire, we sat till the moon grew lazy with us, and it fell. We entered my house again and kicked her friend out from my room, the little seductress was waiting on itching nerves for my arrival.
The only thing tasting better than a kiss I waited two years for, was one that I recently had that I waited 3 years for, but up till then, the bar was set. Under the restlessness of my hands she began to wilt her cloths like pedles shedding from it’s stem, her body was warming to mine, and our cold sunk beneath the sheets; and it’d wait till the morning to return.
With the inevitable approaching I started to retreat, I was self-conscious and feared my inexperience would create distance between us later. After, only, pressing to hard against her for too long, she became a restless torado with nothing to consume, so she dispersed, and slept inexperienced in my lackluster arms….
We woke up, she left, and I have only seen her in passing, but at a distance, you can never really be too sure who is who…….
I loved her, I still do, like a movie memorized I remember the sadness in my eyes seeing her smile turn it’s page towards the grinning death of our relationship. In moments of insecurity and loneliness I create her laugh within other’s across the street, I’ve opened the hearts of beauties who imitate her blooming, revealing trust and acceptance, I’ve even seen the dream that we lived out, inside the hopes of other women’s eyes. I’ve re-sparked our life long love in every one night stand that’s existed. I’ve loved, and I still do.
Love [luhv] noun, verb, loved, loving
1.a profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person.
2.a feeling of warm personal attachment or deep affection, as for a parent, child, or friend.
3.sexual passion or desire.
4.a person toward whom love is felt; beloved person; sweetheart.
5.(used in direct address as a term of endearment, affection, or the like): Would you like to see a movie, love?
I believe love is a jest between the heart and the mind, while in it, the mind is confused by something it can not figure out, and the heart is crazed in emotional exertion, which in any other case, it’d usually be fine with.. I’m a fool for have felt this way so many times, but in some sense, I’m the luckiest, and most decent, fool there is.
© Joshua Bantum September 2011