Underestimation

I never enjoyed the beach. I'm more of a mountain girl.
But I met you on the beach and fell in love.
Never again will I underestimate the power of physical attraction.

I never liked the unaware and inattentive. I am more of an intellectual.
But you listened intently and told me you loved me.
Never again will I underestimate the power of lies.

I've never been into a prep. I am more of a black eyeliner and blood from self-inflicted wounds kinda girl.
But you said you loved my heartache while you were fucking me.
Never again will I underestimate the power of pain.

I never liked Spanish men. I am more of a Caucasian lover.
But I looked into those big brown eyes and told you I loved you over fried plantains.
Never again will I underestimate the power of change.

I have never been fond of jealousy. I am more an open-minded, loose-lipped kinda girl.
But you told me they didn't love me.
Never again will I underestimate the power of loneliness.

I never believed in the devil. I put more stake in science.
But you promised love and showed me hate.
Never again will I underestimate the power of evil.

This story will start with the end.

I know this boy... with a terrible story. A boy that the women that care for him end up never speaking to him again. I'm sure, I'm positive they want to -- every time he texts them and tells them, "I'm ready to settle down. I'm sorry. I can't live without you," -- but they don't.
I heard it all from his point of view and all the "friends" he's tricked.
But this time I heard it from the woman. She's beautiful and aspiring and all around wonderful... I think. But by the end you may believe me biased.
She gave everything to this boy, her love, her body, her money, her emotions, her polygamous way, she really gave it all, and he fucked her... literally. He fucked her well which is one reason it was so hard for her to forget him.
But metaphorically he ruined her. It's so strange what other people give you as a parting gift. See I knew this gentleman, he was 43 when I started dating him -- people thought I had daddy issues but I've written about this before -- and it didn't last long but I drove to Iowa every weekend to live with him in a mansion with an art gallery underneath. I never paid for anything and he took pictures of me   hula-hooping like I was beautiful enough to be immortalized in photo. Back to it didn't last long... He left me with a CD case full of great music. The Dutchess and the Duke -- one of my favorites -- I now give to everyone else.
I gave it to this woman, who gave Reservoir Park to this boy. Now this boy will have a little piece of Scott with him forever, whether he wants to or not.

OTHER PEOPLE HAVE HAD THE PLEASURE OF FUCKING ME, YOU ABUSIVE CUNT.

And that's the beginning of this biography of the woman. It might take me days, months, maybe years to finish this story, so settle in readers.

I guess we start with the woman. She's high maintenance as any fine piece of ass that's a little bit different. But actually she's not... only when her black-lined green eyes start twitching when the line between reality and fiction starts to Blur. When she doesn't know who to trust, she's the most needy bitch on the block. But I would never fault her. It makes sense to be unimaginably insane if crazy lays in bed with you every night.

It's 12:07 Saturday morning. He signed the papers a week ago. They didn't get it notarized and she's scared she won't win but she's watched enough Judge Judy to know lady judges don't give a shit about men scum. She's probably a lesbian and she'll always side with the plaintiff.
She's been drinking clear rum and orange juice since he left. I wouldn't recommend this mixture to anyone.
And now that her roommate is in the other room moaning and smacking that tight, young, African American ass, she's feeling rather horny, which only brings anger these days. Because she could be fucking her MMA instructor who was on the verge of stiffness as they wrestled around, her giggling at the awkwardness of sitting on a man's pelvic region getting ready to  twist sideways, throw her leg over his head and put his forearm in her crotch for an arm bar.
He could easily tap out on her ass and then flip her over for the take down... of her sweats. She's raunchy now... maybe the boy was right. She is a whore, but being a whore isn't illegal, thank god.
She's got this new sexual appetite after reading Last Exit to Brooklyn by Hubert Selby, Jr. If you've never read it, and get off on repulsion, I'd recommend it.
She loves him though. Isn't that tragic? The best women fall in love with haughty low-lifes, ones that only make this kind of woman more reckless and out of touch with tongue,attachment and fabrication.

Too sensitive to smell

The cool September wind was playing a song as it passed over my half-full Heineken bottle – my feet steps ahead of his just so he could see how pretty I looked with my hair whipping across my face and my shorts covered by a long sheer salmon-colored shirt, exposing my newly flattened stomach and floral print black bra.

I’ve been stressed. I don’t usually notice stress, but it’s evident because every bite of food, besides potato chips and McDonald’s makes my stomach turn, so my body thins. 

Every rough step, every dive the boys took into the alluring dark waves, every burst of laughter and “come on man” while I marveled at the stars I hadn’t seen in months, sent me into a spell of déjà vu.

It feels good to have déjà vu, but what does it mean? It’s the phenomenon of having the strong sensation that an experience currently being experienced has been experienced in the past. Most don’t understand what is really happening when you experience déjà vu, and for the sake of prose I’ll pretend as well.

It was as if I was supposed to be there. I was happy, very happy.

 

Does it have anything to do with that night?

 

Texas hasn’t been as good to us. His eyes don’t pull up in the corners as his mouth does the same when he looks at me. It’s almost a blank stare. And then when I smile he asks, “What?”  

He’s mad at me all the time.

I wonder if someone outside the situation would see it his way. Maybe I am wicked. I try really hard to make him happy. Or at least I think I do. I guess I’ve never been good at it.

When I want to put my lips all over him, when I want every inch of my body to fuse with his, when I want our bones to grind and make dust that soaks up the blood forming on the top of the skin on our necks… I’m turned on now… But he thinks I’m too clingy and I ask too much.

But when I sip rum on The Looking Glass patio alone staring at the beautiful people doing beautiful things and daydreaming about the beauty they bring to my life, when I walk away to smoke without asking him to come, when he asks me a question and I don’t answer to think about the answer… I can’t give him enough attention.

He would rather sit for hours and look at others’ pictures on Instagram and Facebook then see the picture in front of him that he can reach out and hear, smell and touch. And I guess he wants me to do the same – having relationships with others only online.

Missouri – like always – has been tumultuous. I broke up with him. He’s begged, but my pride is stronger than my grace. It’s something I should work on.

I can’t eat and neither can he. I’m shaking and I see his hands twitching above the keyboard.

The difference is I’m sitting alone while he’s downstairs laughing with my friends, although the best part of him lingers to keep me preoccupied – the smell of his deodorant.  It could practically induce my vomiting – I danced around Target while he held every men’s antiperspirant up to my nose until I was woozy and sick and giggling, while couples looked at us and wished they were in that simple, bothersome moment.

That mirage will forever trick me.