Bad Boys, Bad Boys...Watcha Gonna Do? Watcha Gonna Do When They Come for You? RUN!!
I'm shocked, really, that my uber-hormonal weanie self waited this long to bring up this subject...I guess I didn't want to seem obsessed ("Which I'm not!!!" I type indignantly and furiously and more than a bit defensively). That's right, dear reader, you get to peer in through the half broken and in dire need of a good cleaning window to the bizarre surreality that is my love life. Or sex life. Or both...take your pick, you probably have a much better sense about these things than I do. Actually I have a paralyzing fear of the word love, so let's just dub it dating life. This is probably a much more apt moniker, and will prevent me from breaking into hives or spontaneously combusting or all of the above.
In case you couldn't figure out from my paranoia about a silly harmless terrifying word, I'm a little fucked up (and that's what we call a little understatement) when it comes to boys. And men, though those are a rare breed indeed, most often spotted with wedding rings or lip-locked to another man. I have yet to venture across the border to women, but as I'm sure I will one day, let me just say now I have no doubt I'll be equally as fucked up. And as for animals, that idea just really disturbs me; I'm very open minded and always want to try everything, but that's just taking it a bit far for this Synge. My vibrator and I, as of this posting, have no quarrels (though I really am not partial to the color hot pink).
I know, who isn't fucked up in regards to dating and all the four letter words associated with it, right? But I seem to always find myself in these situations that provide endless entertainment to my gay boyfriends, but that's about it. One of my gay boyfriends (I only have 2, I'm not that much of a hussy!), let's call him Artsy Hotpants because that will make him e-mail or call saying "What the fuck? Artsy Hotpants? Oh-kay.", told me the other day that I get more booty than anyone he knows. I replied that I also had more bad dating luck and weird stories than anyone he knows; He was thus forced to concurr. If it weren't for Artsy Hotpants laughing with me about all of this, I'd probably realize how pathetic it is, but luckily for the moment I've convinced myself that it's all very funny. Merci beaucoup Artsy Hotpants (I so enjoy calling you that).
The main thru-line of the long-running farce lies in the character of Mr. Emotionally Unavailable (self named, as per the ending of Round III). Guess what Mr. Emotionally Unavailable's problem is? You'll never guess, really, as subtlety is my strong suit. Mr. Emotionally Unavailable and I have been through three "rounds", as I like to call them due to the ongoing boxing match that has been our struggle to approach anything remotely akin to comprehension of eachother. Mr. Emotional Unavailability's capacity to push away exponentially surpasses any and all attempts I may have ever made to the same effect, even in my pushing away heyday (and I was pretty damn good at it; or so I thought). I have now become far more fluent in EmoUnav-speak, his native tongue, and have for the most part ceased to obsess over every little nuanced phrasing choice and constantly question my gut interpretation.
All of this is a moot point, however, as Mr. Emotionally Unavilable is, in his own words, "chronically emotionally unavailable"; therefore despite his admission that he has feelings for me as I do for him, we cannot be together. The mathmatical and scientific probabilities that he will hurt me are far too great, or some bullshit like that. I know nothing of mathmatical and scientifuc probabilities; that is not my department. My department is knowing that there is a deep strong connection there that resonates mostly in the silent moments and that when we dare to look really deeply into eachothers' eyes my stomach drops into my knees and I can feel his do the same. We cannot be in the same room for more than 2 minutes without either ripping eachother's clothes off, or at least wanting to. As he said, "there's a reason we keep coming back to eachother"; unfortunately either that reason scares the shit out of him, or he's a very honest asshole.
Mr. Emotionally Unavailable has graciously proposed a friendship with benefits; the most he can give at present. In an uncharacteristically self-aware and dare I say adult move, I respectfully declined, pleading already overloaded self destructive tendencies that need not be encouraged. Thus far, I have remained staunch in my resolve- difficult as its been. I am proud of myself for this; it shows great growth in the self love and self respect departments, as well as great fear of incurring the wrath of Mr. Artsy Hotpants.
So Tuesday, I had my first platonic lunch with Mr. Emotionally Unavailable (lunch: the safe date). It went fairly well, though I wonder if a little smooching violates the platonic part of the agreement. I'll opt for a response of no, as that's what I'd like to believe. He somehow seems to translate my decision to decline his fuck-buddy offer as me having ended things, and/or me running and abandoning ship. Despite my improved fluency in EmoUnav-speak, this is one I can't really figure out. Wouldn't his offer, despite his confession of having feelings for me, constitute the bolting out the door part of the story? I'm sorry, but I can't quite comprehend how my refusal to enter into an agreement to be a friendly happy-go-lucky vagina sans strings can be construed as running. I'd venture to call it, perhaps, an act of sanity.
Mr. Emotionally Unavailability asked if I was going to send him the link to my blog. Perhaps I will, though he will most definitely abhor my writing. Good for him. Nannie nannie boo boo, I'm so fucking mature in this moment!
Next you must flex your suspension of disbelief muscles, as this is by no means reality. It involves taking a vacation in your own apartment, and the lovely magical departure from your normal day to day life that even PMS and strep throat cannot intrude upon; but it is a mutually created illusion that is always the by-product of long distance. It's a very familiar story to me, and I've made the mistake of confusing the fiction with reality many times before. The great thing about the long distance illusion is that it can be whatever you create it to be- both ideal and dangerous for those of us with overactive imaginations.
I was unlawfully arrested with Captain Resistance (and 63 or so others in our little impromptu sidewalk march) during the Republican National Convention [I will be able to post about it when my upcoming trial is over], but I did not meet him in person until December. We spent a great deal of time communicating via the various arrestees listserves, as he was in Norway and I was away on a contract down south (which may as well have been Norway at times). As we had the same arrest scenario and were both awaiting trial after having pled not guilty, we maintained pretty regular contact and found we had a lot in common. Captain Resistance is a sailor, and I happen to have developed a great affinity for sailing and sailboats in another epoque. We became fast friends, and the first time we ever spoke on the phone it felt like we had known eachother our whole lives. There's an instant familiarity and comfortableness with Captain Resistance, like we've done this before and have already learned to navigate eachother.
When he came up in mid-December for a court date and visit, one thing invariably led to another and of course the newly purchased guest bed/camping cot was never used. It was a lovely surreal visit, despite my being horrifically sick, that I dubbed the vacation in my apartment. We connect seamlessly in endless conversations about politics, children, relationships, past fuck-ups, and life in general. It feels like coming home.
Yet I know all of this is only possible because it is our own personal fiction, and that to violate the protective bubble it was created in would destroy it all. The beauty lies in the disconnect from the real world, and such a disconnect is not sustainable in the long run. I tried for 3.5 years with Mr. Old Guy; reality, much as I choose to flee from it, always ends up intruding. While Captain Resistance is much younger than Mr. Old Guy, there is still an age difference to consider in addition to the distance thing. As much as I refused to admit it at the time, it does make a difference in the day to day compatibility.
Captain Resistance (pronounced with a fench accent of course) has used the dreaded "L" word, inciting great panic in my little world. While I have not run yet, as I have the protection of distance to fall back on, I hold back...as much for my protection as his. I know too well my proclivity for fiction. He told me last night (we're vacationing again- another court date) that perhaps I could be accused of emotional unavailability as well. My defensive response is a petulant cry of "This is totally different!"
Captain Resistance reads my blog as well; everyone smile and wave.
Hardly worth mentioning, except for comic value, is Mr. Txtmsg. Mr. Txtmsg is incapable of communicating via non-electronic means; while I am unsure if this disease is curable or not, this is why Mr. Txtmsg has been officially booted to the curb. On our first date, we went to see Supersize Me at the Critical Mass Space and to my supreme annoyance and humiliation, he drove! He also puts his underwear back on after sex because "adults don't sleep naked." Thank God! I was starting to fear I was approaching adult status, what with making some responsible choices and all, but now I can rest easy in the knowledge that unless I stop sleeping in my Birthday Suit I will not be considered an adult. (Though what kid do you know that sleeps naked? That's what I want to know.)
The final straw came when Mr. Txtmsg actually asked me if I would be interested in participating in a menage a trois he's been fantasizing about, via text message. Now I understand that he is clearly physically incapable of picking up a fucking phone on most occasions, and I won't mock the behaviorally challenged, but this raised the tackiness bar to new heights. My response was that I felt it just might be an inappropriate venue for this sort of discussion, but I was oh-so-glad that I was in his fantasies. Completely missing the sarcasm, he said something along the lines of "Ok. Whatever you want. Just keep it in mind and have a great weekend." Attempting to send a more blatant txt, I said "I can never quite decide whether to be insulted by you or not. Its interesting." His reply: "Thanks". That pretty much says it all folks, doesn't it?
Well, this post has been an epic affair, which turned far more serious than the lighthearted romp through my present collection of funny boy stories I intended. Oh well, I'm tired and have cramps, whaddya expect from me people? But I would like to point out that I did learn how to insert a link...it was very difficult, I had to press the link icon and then copy and paste an address...it's a wonder I ever figured it out on my own.
I'm a fucking mess. Mr. Artsy Hotpants, I'm right there with you...if I had an ipod, I'd date it too.
In case you couldn't figure out from my paranoia about a silly harmless terrifying word, I'm a little fucked up (and that's what we call a little understatement) when it comes to boys. And men, though those are a rare breed indeed, most often spotted with wedding rings or lip-locked to another man. I have yet to venture across the border to women, but as I'm sure I will one day, let me just say now I have no doubt I'll be equally as fucked up. And as for animals, that idea just really disturbs me; I'm very open minded and always want to try everything, but that's just taking it a bit far for this Synge. My vibrator and I, as of this posting, have no quarrels (though I really am not partial to the color hot pink).
I know, who isn't fucked up in regards to dating and all the four letter words associated with it, right? But I seem to always find myself in these situations that provide endless entertainment to my gay boyfriends, but that's about it. One of my gay boyfriends (I only have 2, I'm not that much of a hussy!), let's call him Artsy Hotpants because that will make him e-mail or call saying "What the fuck? Artsy Hotpants? Oh-kay.", told me the other day that I get more booty than anyone he knows. I replied that I also had more bad dating luck and weird stories than anyone he knows; He was thus forced to concurr. If it weren't for Artsy Hotpants laughing with me about all of this, I'd probably realize how pathetic it is, but luckily for the moment I've convinced myself that it's all very funny. Merci beaucoup Artsy Hotpants (I so enjoy calling you that).
The main thru-line of the long-running farce lies in the character of Mr. Emotionally Unavailable (self named, as per the ending of Round III). Guess what Mr. Emotionally Unavailable's problem is? You'll never guess, really, as subtlety is my strong suit. Mr. Emotionally Unavailable and I have been through three "rounds", as I like to call them due to the ongoing boxing match that has been our struggle to approach anything remotely akin to comprehension of eachother. Mr. Emotional Unavailability's capacity to push away exponentially surpasses any and all attempts I may have ever made to the same effect, even in my pushing away heyday (and I was pretty damn good at it; or so I thought). I have now become far more fluent in EmoUnav-speak, his native tongue, and have for the most part ceased to obsess over every little nuanced phrasing choice and constantly question my gut interpretation.
All of this is a moot point, however, as Mr. Emotionally Unavilable is, in his own words, "chronically emotionally unavailable"; therefore despite his admission that he has feelings for me as I do for him, we cannot be together. The mathmatical and scientific probabilities that he will hurt me are far too great, or some bullshit like that. I know nothing of mathmatical and scientifuc probabilities; that is not my department. My department is knowing that there is a deep strong connection there that resonates mostly in the silent moments and that when we dare to look really deeply into eachothers' eyes my stomach drops into my knees and I can feel his do the same. We cannot be in the same room for more than 2 minutes without either ripping eachother's clothes off, or at least wanting to. As he said, "there's a reason we keep coming back to eachother"; unfortunately either that reason scares the shit out of him, or he's a very honest asshole.
Mr. Emotionally Unavailable has graciously proposed a friendship with benefits; the most he can give at present. In an uncharacteristically self-aware and dare I say adult move, I respectfully declined, pleading already overloaded self destructive tendencies that need not be encouraged. Thus far, I have remained staunch in my resolve- difficult as its been. I am proud of myself for this; it shows great growth in the self love and self respect departments, as well as great fear of incurring the wrath of Mr. Artsy Hotpants.
So Tuesday, I had my first platonic lunch with Mr. Emotionally Unavailable (lunch: the safe date). It went fairly well, though I wonder if a little smooching violates the platonic part of the agreement. I'll opt for a response of no, as that's what I'd like to believe. He somehow seems to translate my decision to decline his fuck-buddy offer as me having ended things, and/or me running and abandoning ship. Despite my improved fluency in EmoUnav-speak, this is one I can't really figure out. Wouldn't his offer, despite his confession of having feelings for me, constitute the bolting out the door part of the story? I'm sorry, but I can't quite comprehend how my refusal to enter into an agreement to be a friendly happy-go-lucky vagina sans strings can be construed as running. I'd venture to call it, perhaps, an act of sanity.
Mr. Emotionally Unavailability asked if I was going to send him the link to my blog. Perhaps I will, though he will most definitely abhor my writing. Good for him. Nannie nannie boo boo, I'm so fucking mature in this moment!
Next you must flex your suspension of disbelief muscles, as this is by no means reality. It involves taking a vacation in your own apartment, and the lovely magical departure from your normal day to day life that even PMS and strep throat cannot intrude upon; but it is a mutually created illusion that is always the by-product of long distance. It's a very familiar story to me, and I've made the mistake of confusing the fiction with reality many times before. The great thing about the long distance illusion is that it can be whatever you create it to be- both ideal and dangerous for those of us with overactive imaginations.
I was unlawfully arrested with Captain Resistance (and 63 or so others in our little impromptu sidewalk march) during the Republican National Convention [I will be able to post about it when my upcoming trial is over], but I did not meet him in person until December. We spent a great deal of time communicating via the various arrestees listserves, as he was in Norway and I was away on a contract down south (which may as well have been Norway at times). As we had the same arrest scenario and were both awaiting trial after having pled not guilty, we maintained pretty regular contact and found we had a lot in common. Captain Resistance is a sailor, and I happen to have developed a great affinity for sailing and sailboats in another epoque. We became fast friends, and the first time we ever spoke on the phone it felt like we had known eachother our whole lives. There's an instant familiarity and comfortableness with Captain Resistance, like we've done this before and have already learned to navigate eachother.
When he came up in mid-December for a court date and visit, one thing invariably led to another and of course the newly purchased guest bed/camping cot was never used. It was a lovely surreal visit, despite my being horrifically sick, that I dubbed the vacation in my apartment. We connect seamlessly in endless conversations about politics, children, relationships, past fuck-ups, and life in general. It feels like coming home.
Yet I know all of this is only possible because it is our own personal fiction, and that to violate the protective bubble it was created in would destroy it all. The beauty lies in the disconnect from the real world, and such a disconnect is not sustainable in the long run. I tried for 3.5 years with Mr. Old Guy; reality, much as I choose to flee from it, always ends up intruding. While Captain Resistance is much younger than Mr. Old Guy, there is still an age difference to consider in addition to the distance thing. As much as I refused to admit it at the time, it does make a difference in the day to day compatibility.
Captain Resistance (pronounced with a fench accent of course) has used the dreaded "L" word, inciting great panic in my little world. While I have not run yet, as I have the protection of distance to fall back on, I hold back...as much for my protection as his. I know too well my proclivity for fiction. He told me last night (we're vacationing again- another court date) that perhaps I could be accused of emotional unavailability as well. My defensive response is a petulant cry of "This is totally different!"
Captain Resistance reads my blog as well; everyone smile and wave.
Hardly worth mentioning, except for comic value, is Mr. Txtmsg. Mr. Txtmsg is incapable of communicating via non-electronic means; while I am unsure if this disease is curable or not, this is why Mr. Txtmsg has been officially booted to the curb. On our first date, we went to see Supersize Me at the Critical Mass Space and to my supreme annoyance and humiliation, he drove! He also puts his underwear back on after sex because "adults don't sleep naked." Thank God! I was starting to fear I was approaching adult status, what with making some responsible choices and all, but now I can rest easy in the knowledge that unless I stop sleeping in my Birthday Suit I will not be considered an adult. (Though what kid do you know that sleeps naked? That's what I want to know.)
The final straw came when Mr. Txtmsg actually asked me if I would be interested in participating in a menage a trois he's been fantasizing about, via text message. Now I understand that he is clearly physically incapable of picking up a fucking phone on most occasions, and I won't mock the behaviorally challenged, but this raised the tackiness bar to new heights. My response was that I felt it just might be an inappropriate venue for this sort of discussion, but I was oh-so-glad that I was in his fantasies. Completely missing the sarcasm, he said something along the lines of "Ok. Whatever you want. Just keep it in mind and have a great weekend." Attempting to send a more blatant txt, I said "I can never quite decide whether to be insulted by you or not. Its interesting." His reply: "Thanks". That pretty much says it all folks, doesn't it?
Well, this post has been an epic affair, which turned far more serious than the lighthearted romp through my present collection of funny boy stories I intended. Oh well, I'm tired and have cramps, whaddya expect from me people? But I would like to point out that I did learn how to insert a link...it was very difficult, I had to press the link icon and then copy and paste an address...it's a wonder I ever figured it out on my own.
I'm a fucking mess. Mr. Artsy Hotpants, I'm right there with you...if I had an ipod, I'd date it too.
posted by Le Synge Bleu at 9:54 AM
15 Comments:
kristoise,
a)okay, has john had clawed privates trauma in the past?
b)you still haven't given the rest of the fiskerboller phrase i forgot. (plus my sailor's not really norweigan, he just plays one for work several months a year)
c)i think the people don't change line's a crock o' shit- wouldn't you have to admit that i've changed enormously since you've known me (and keep in mind i had just unknowingly enacted your vengence on Meckie and Bark when we became friends)?
d)what's so fictitious is from 3/4 a continent away, its very easy to make a relationship whatever you want it to be, but its still wholly different from the day to day existance that doesn't really translate telephonically. then when you see eachother, its always a special thing that stops time completely, but isn't reality either. that's what I mean by fictitious.
e)tell john i said "beware the eve of cats"
I think you're great. Men be damned!
Love,
MAH (Mr. Artsy Hotpants)
Listen, let's be careful not to condemn ALL men. Some of them are very worthwhile. Kitten is just now figuring out how to determine which of them to put aside and which to put inside...which is a remarkable pursuit we all face. P
Yes, we're bad. But that's because we're boys, in the literal sense of the word. There was more truth in your title than you might have realized. Too many pretend-men out there, probably. I've been such a jerk and grouchy all day that all I can think of is that new song in which Bono sings "whatever happened to the beauty that was inside of me." Maybe if those guys got that lyric stuck in THEIR minds, they'd act a lot better. I will.
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BTW, Kristoise. John is weird. Even Marc sleeps naked sometimes, and he's about as repressed as they come.
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vixanne, you're so right...i always pick the chessecake.
kristoise, vixanne's deleted post said i always pick cheesecake over apples.
sarachkah, my booty's getting pretty large too these days, but i have no excuse. plus your booty's definitely sexier than mine...i've seen the photos. so i'll have to settle for getting more booty, although i think my generous title's really only applicable in regards to the single world (which excludes many of you commenting on this post).
i have to say that we haven't all kept in touch this regularly and in a communal dialoge in years (with the exception of sarachkah and vixanne's weddings). makes me miss the hell out of you people.
the newly engaged ms. angel chords and i were talking about a girls' weekend when she was in ny w/ her fiancee (which we all pronounced with a french accent the whole day...i was so pleased). maybe we can do it on the farm, even. we should do an updated version of the saucy details pictures too - it'd be funny. we could do it every 10 years (my god, it has been 10 years since we took those pics!).
so, which one of you is chrissie hynde, and which one is patti smith? and who's the one who knows this is a compliment?
I think Kristi is Patti Smith...although she'd probably rather be someone from "Heart." I don't care who is who as long as I get to be Liz Phair.
hey, let's be careful about remembering to use Blogger names here, okay Liz Phair?
Say I like Kristoise's comments, you're alright!
Nuke a few Red States here and there and before you know it NYC is just across the Sabine from Tejas. Sure would beat the hell outta New Jersey.
And don't you think that "Reality" is way over-rated? Hell, I'll take a good old dose of "illusion" (as you like to call it) any day over living in fear. Besides, LIFE is exactly as you create it, including long distance relationships.
Remember our conversation, in the final analysis there are only 2 emotions, Love and fear......well make that 3 emotions, the third being SAILING (which at times can encompass both love and fear simultaneously).
So, are we sailing or what?
Incredible week once again, although I must admit to being hurt that you have already forgotten the theme for this week was "Stowaways", such an important part of the story (well, my story at least).
Remind me next time to check under the bed for attack cats, and cowering little boys who don't have the cajones to show up.
Cap'n...unfair to use sailing as a metaphor. Equally unfair to bring fear, choice and adventure into the equation.
Btw, has it been mentioned yet how ridiculously stubborn I am?
I'm sorry you're hurt that I didn't mention certain things in my blog...whatever I do and don't include in my blog is no reflection of the weight it necessarily bears. It's where I am and what phrasing I choose in the particular moment its written. I didn't forget.
I didn't realize any cowering little cajone-less boys were invited to show up...but they wouldn't fit in the mythically bottomless space under the bed...I think that's where I've hidden all the mail and bills I don't open. I do believe the Tejas influence was making itself evident in that remark, which sounded faintly like it could possibly be construed as competetive and thus slightly posessive. Luckily, I know you don't believe in viewing women as posessions, so I won't construe it that way. After all, you claim to ask nothing of me.
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