Promiscuous

21 06 2011

“Becoming more promiscuous after a sexual assault is just as common as becoming frigid or undesired of being touched.”

For me it was split. If a guy touched me first I would often freak out inside, sometimes I still do. But more it was like I was on a hunt. A hunt for any cock that could make my insides not feel of him. Months after being apart I still felt him inside me. Any shape would do, because at least it wasn’t his. It didn’t matter who it was, I didn’t see a face, or a name. I wasn’t fucking a person, it was just a warm body. A place holder.

I’m not proud of this. I treated them no better than a piece of meat. I’m not saying that all of these guys were perfect gentlemen, but some of them deserved much more than what I gave them. For the most part I thought it was tit for tat. I didn’t think they wanted anything really other than my body and so why should I want anything more from them? Most of them I didn’t even really want their body, I Just wanted to not feel his.

“Just don’t go out and fuck a bunch of random guys, L, you’re better than that.”

Because of those words I went on a fucking rampage. Not my brightest moment. And I’m lucky I didn’t get hurt even more, at least not for a while. But I didn’t understand what had happened between my husband and I. All I knew is I could feel him on top of me, inside of me, and it made me feel sick. Anything was better than that feeling.

And then a friend came a long. And Christmas with him. Being vegan we cooked a lot instead of going out and fucked more. He had been burned bad, and hadn’t been laid in a while, I guess I was his confidence booster. I really liked him. I liked having sex with him, and even a few times we actually made love to each other. But really that part of my humanity still needed a great amount of repair. And I still had no idea what had happened, at least not the fore front of my mind. If I had actually  lived in town I might have risked a real relationship. I’m so glad I didn’t, because I think that if he had accepted I would have treated him terribly. And he’s one of the nice ones.

I thought for sure having sex multiple times a day for a month would keep what I was merely horniness under control for at least a month or two. But a week after I got back home, I found myself drunkenly fucking a guy I could not stand.  I blew him, but I was strange because he was watching “Step Brothers” the whole time. I really don’t like that movie. It was taking a while and my jaw hurt so I told him I had a condom. He came quickly after that and got up and went to take a shower, meanwhile I felt really unsatisfied and annoyed.

I stared him in the face and asked him, ” Do you like pleasing women?”

After that I decided that I would only fuck people I that I found attractive, and people I actually liked.

Finally some sort of standards.

After the vegan I realized I really wanted a steady partner, because for the most part one night stands blow.

I told myself that I was exploring my sexuality. And its true in many ways I was. I learned something about myself and my body with every person. Unless the guy was a real jerk I was usually very polite. Even if he did loose wood. I realized for the most part I was a patient person and that after being married for two years and not having my pleasure considered I wanted it to be. I realized that some times its almost impossible for sex to be only about the P in the V. But more than anything, I realized that deep down I knew I wasn’t okay.

But I had no idea why. I thought it was the divorce. I knew that the way my ex and I had ended wasn’t right, but I didn’t think about it much. I read and reread my journal, his emails, looking for clues searching for answers of what had happened.

I think my subconscious was protecting my consciousness. Because it wasn’t until I was done with undergrad this past spring that it happened. In the most unexpected way. I had moved around a couple of times trying to really find a place to live after graduation. I was unpacking my books. I came across my Human Sexuality textbook I had gotten at a garage sale in Denton, I decided to flip through it. I stumbled upon the definition for sexual assault.  In a flash it all came back.





Scab

19 06 2011

I pick a scab as I stare off into the screen an entertaining abyss of droll. My hairline has intermingled with the wound, making it difficult to remove the flesh bandage from my temple.

pick. pick. pick.

I scratch my face, the blemishes and think of why I stare off into this nonsense of procedural crimes still. SVU is a joke, overreactions meet overacting and unreal situations. Why do I love it so much?

I think of my counselor and how she encouraged me to start filling up my new moleskin. I had finished the old one for weeks now, three years of my life in the most consistent recording I’ve ever kept of my life.

pick. pick. pick

I think of how my old hippy future Boston roommate told me to leave all my old stuff and come with a clean slate. Just my favorite supplies, he says, don’t worry about all the tiny details.

Clean slate. Blank page.
Those are the most terrifying things in life and writing.

But not with art. On the virginal surface all I see is possibility. I’m so close to seeing life that way, but to me its still that plank page. That three years in a small 5″x7″ notebook that weighs 1,000 pounds.

But even then a clean slate with my art? To me that’s almost like erasing whats taking me to Boston in the first place. I mean I may not depict memories or illustrate them clearly, for others, but my subconscious knows that they are there.

I could reinvent myself. But I want to add to myself. Transform. Metamorphose. Moving is so hard for me. It excites me yes.

But packing. I hate packing. Because I’m the opposite of Gorge Clooney from Up in the Air. I don’t just have an empty backpack. I have a pack mule, that I named George and can’t stop feeding, and adding more things.

pick. pick. pick.

I dig deeper and feel the blood run down my cheek.

For some reason I think of the boy I fucked at a house party in the back of my car. Magazines and even a 100lb bag of plaster were there, but I didn’t care all I saw was sweet blonde pubes and a comfortable cock. It was quick and he was the first to ask to see my “titties”. “Titties” that word just kept playing over and over in my head, and I saw him old with a cane blocking some sweet young thing with a nice rack and him asking to see her titties.

Tits, Boobs, Breasts, Rack, I’ve heard all of those, but there in the back of my car on top of all that junk I heard titties for the first time.

I thought of the story my Papa told me, the first time he met my second cousin, when she was only 16. She asked him if he liked her titties. He told me how his eyes got wide and confused, shocked that this teenager had asked him, an old man such a forward and vulgar question. My cousin took off her sandal and showed him. Her Titties, were shoes.

pick. pick. And finally the scab is loose and I slide it down through my hair, I go and look in the mirror to asses the damage.





Movie Review: He’s Just not that Into You

18 06 2011

I knew I was going to eventually start a wordpress the moment I saw one, how clean they all look, I love it. I just finished watching on TV “He’s Just Not that Into You” now, I don’t know how it started, I came into the movie I’m not sure how late exactly, couldn’t have been too far into it- I watched an hour and a half of it after all. Any way, there’s all these different couples different stages of life, blah, blah. One was infuriating, the movie is supposed to be mostly about the mistakes women make in relationships, and while I didn’t really like the way it was presented and gave off that terrible stench of making women out to be desparate for love. I’m going to try and take a positive spin and say that they were just trying to say that women really shouldn’t be so eager for that feeling of being in loooove.
BUT, I will say this, there were two couples that were really beautifully portrayed, because it was so much closer to reality. One was that they had broken up because one (Jennifer Aniston’s character) wanted to get married and (Ben Affleck’s character) didn’t understand why they had to get married since they were all ready committed to each other and they knew that. Now, I am guessing on that exact scenario since I did miss that part, but lets just say its an intelligently inferred guess. Her dad, with whom she’s very close, has a heart attack later in the movie and he’s there for her, no he doesn’t show up, running in the rain and they embrace and kiss. He’s doing the dishes, and bought groceries for her father, while her other sister’s three officially married title husbands are sitting on their asses drinking beer and watching golf or some other sport. He shows her that he’s a partner in life. And she tells him that he was more of a husband than the three put together. In the end the marriage proposal he tells her that he needs to make her happy so that he could possibly have an ounce of happiness.

If it were me now and some one who I had been with said that to me, I would have to say, no I can’t marry you. Marriage, relationships of any kind, they aren’t there to complete us. Relationships help us understand who we are, they teach us sure. But the self, fills the self. True that the self knows its existence through the other, but the self fills the self. Otherwise its just a form of codependency.

The other couple had been married for several years, and been together even longer. She is portrayed as kind of cold and uptight. He seems to be the perfect husband. But he doesn’t really want to be married. But he doesn’t really want to be alone either. He never wanted to be married it turns out, but really he got married because he was afraid of being alone. (It was nice to see that portrayed by a man btw.) He ends up cheating on her. With Scarlett Johansen, who ends up being stored in the closet of his office while wifey comes in to try and surprise him by spicing things up a bit. Scarlet Johansen tells him that he will never touch her again, and that he’s a pitiful excuse for a man and walks out (after the wife is gone).

While that part isn’t nearly as realistic, the way Jennifer Connelly’s character is kind of going crazy because the person she loves and has set her whole world on is continually lying to her face, that portrayal I felt was pretty accurate. She ends up deciding to divorce him after she finds a pack of cigarets in his pocket. Now her father died of lung cancer, and so she’s very anti-smoking. Plus he had repeatedly lied, looked into her eye and lied to her that he had quit. If he had lied about that I’m sure she realized that he also lied when after he told her about sleeping with some one else and she asked him if he wanted to try and fix the marriage, and he said yes.

In the end she starts over. Not with some one else to fill the holes. With herself.

That’s where I am now. I have started over with myself. Its been almost two years now since we separated. It would have been almost two years since I had heard his voice, too, but he called me the other day. I didn’t recognize his voice. Once he identified himself, I hung up. I haven’t changed my phone number yet, but I’ll do that before I move to Boston.

I’m leaving Texas soon. I’ve always imagined myself living elsewhere, but it was never Boston. I’m so excited about this move! I feel so free.





Stranger

17 06 2011

I was editing my photos from my trip to NY last year. I found this. I was curious to know if something was lurking in the blacked out part. Actually I knew looking at it who was there. He was. The stranger, the one that made me see the mountain peak. The one who spoke French. Who bought me a coffee. The one whose name I don’t remember. The one I cried to, and shouted at in the marble bathroom. The one that made me bleed. I had a chance to remember his face, to see it again, so I decided to lighten the photograph. 

All that remained was a ghost.

As we parted ways he looked me in the eye and told me I was good.

Disillusioned I caught my train back to my appointment at Columbia.

The View from my Rape