Call me the saboteur

Why oh why do we sabotage things when they work?

Why do women always talk, analyze and . . .

I miss you. I really do. My head has rested on your shoulder, our eyes waking up with sleep, replaced with the hunger for each other every morning since Thursday. Our bodies addicted to the new rituals, to their new partners. Yes, you are right about the Air Conditioner. I will inevitably get hot shortly after entering the freezer that is your bedroom. Our bodies glistening in the mirror, physically invigorated, the exhaustion from our days and lack of sleep, irrelevant.

I am addicted.

I didn’t like you. In my mind, this was improbable. But, you were right. You say you just knew. Your straight-forward declaration of that knowledge was perhaps not eloquent, but I appreciate your candor. You liked me, yet you didn’t want to be my boyfriend, you just wanted to sleep with fuck me.

Yeah right, I thought.

And now, I am addicted.

 

Last night as we spoke, our first night apart, I searched for words, for understanding. A woman’s response to something so perfect that needs no words. How did this happen? I don’t understand what the hell I am feeling. I too, don’t want you to be my boyfriend, but I really like you. You really like me too. Fuck, I think. “Could this grow into something?” my mind wonders. “Don’t think,” you say. “Ok,” I respond. I know you are right, but I am leaving for New York, and I miss you already.

I suppose this is what they call “friends with benefits”? (An arrangement I have always objected.) I always thought that FWBs lacked these corresponding mutual emotions.

You are addicted.

You miss me, already.

 

I will listen to you. I will avoid a vocalized search for why this is so fulfilling. For now, my companion, I adore you. 

Pouting with arms crossed– pleading for independence

In my life in PR, my expenses are paid for by work. In NY, they are not. (Of course, my NY bills are three times more than the ones here.) The company is headquartered in PR, but I work in both places. My moving here was because of the company. My life in NY existed before  . . . 

So, this double life never lacks oddities. This week, I have turned into a possessive child . . . agreeing but pouting in my room. Incidents are stacking up everyday that are forcing me to confront my issues with independence. (Indirectly, it has made me realize that perhaps my strong need for independence is what has me attracted to unavailable men.)

It’s Friday and the car I use in PR, which is owned by my boss, is being used for the 5th consecutive day by an employee to do work errands as his car is uninsured at the moment. (So, much for the dry cleaning drop off at lunch and eating something other than Subway, the only grub within walking distance.) It’s odd as I feel like a 5 year-old who is horrible at sharing. I sit here my lip turned out, my arms imaginarily folded stubbornily instead of typing . . . and i want my car, WAAAAAAAAAA! Ironically, I don’t use it very often during the day as I am confined to my desk, but knowing I can’t leave has initiated an anxiety. Last week, I had planned to leave at 3pm and the car didn’t come back until 6pm. I missed a meeting this week. Etc. 

Even worse, I had to fix the flat from taking the client to Pinones and pay for a new tire on Sunday . . (will explain the story later) 

In PR, nothing is MINE . . yet do I have a right to be possessive, if I don’t directly foot the bills? (although i paid for all sheets, curtains, flowers, cleaning, gas, flights, etc)

This past week has included a client staying in my apartment, which has slowly turned into the “corporate apartment” with a revolving door policy, instead of my apartment, the power being lost for 5 days and out of my control to fix, my car being taken and now the “roommate” of the corporate apartment is here . . (supposedly someone who would be here 4 days a month. I had agreed, but now I just want to say GET OUT! I want sex in my apartment without fear that someone will stroll through the door. GO AWAY! I want to leave it messy and not feeling like someone may enter at any time.) I have had independence my entire life. No parental constraints and now as an adult, I cannot handle living like a child for the first time in my existence . . sigh

i want to scream. I want something to be mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.

I really behaved this year . . .

Upon reading the apple homepage, I saw “Have they been really good this year? Shop the online apple store.” I imagined the parents they were targeting. I envisioned myself with children as the holidays near, asking myself absurdly, “was little Attainingme really good this year?”

This lead me to wondering what exactly would distinguish a child being specifically great one year? A child who started exhibiting kindness, generosity, and focus? I would hope that these traits would be required and not distinguishable from year to year.

I realized the fallacy of really in this question. Really implying better, a change. As such, I realized the change I truly want to reward and instill IS the ability for a child to change.
As habitual creatures, inability to change can lead to our defeat. Fear of failure, addiction, repeatedly procrastinating, repeated mistakes . . . What a great gift to give a child the power to reinvent . .
Now, I wonder what other things and lessons I want to teach my children. I recall as a child thinking I wish my parents knew this or that. And I can only imagine a parents’ worries and responsibilities makes it rather easy to lose sight of the larger goals, easily forgetting the small events and lessons that imprint on our children.

I think it would be interesting to make a list of the traits I want my children to have. To revisit such a list when I am in the throes of parenting would likely validate how difficult raising children is and perhaps, it would also remind the future me to not lose sight of the big picture.

Parte 2. Los hombres latinos de “If you want my body and you think I am sexy” . . . Don’t tell me!

Cont. from Parte 1. Sunday. I return home from El San Juan Hotel at 3am. For some reason, I wake up at 6:45am and decide to seize the day. I am walking my dog, as a car passes me, “heeeeeeeeeyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!” Two men are inside. I thought the driver was the gentlemen from dinner the night before. However, as I walked up to their window, I quickly realized I was wrong.

I assessed that they were not starting their day as I was, but instead, were still out from the night before. I walk away. Feeling silly and too trusting for walking up to a car. Moments later, the car does a u-turn and the driver, is excitedly saying, “I know you!!!” It was Caballito! A well-know Equestrian here. They ask me to join them for beers. Perhaps, coffee? They propose a hotel where we can fulfill all of our wants. Shouldn’t I bring doggie home first? No, it will be fine . . . .

As i closed the car door, I smiled at that spontaneity and the randomness of this Sunday morning. Caballito, his Amigo, I and doggie sit at the bar. We all drink from plastic cups. Afterwards, I lead them to the beach desiring some sun time. I take off my dress and leave doggie with the guys as I run into the ocean. I look to the shore and His Amigo has every intent to come in. He disrobes, completely, he is now nakey. The man meditating on the rocks attempts to stare away. Ommmmmm. An hour later they won’t let us back into the hotel.

3 hours later, we reconvene. They are now with their swimsuits. We sit, talk and laugh. The man I know, Caballito, tells me he likes me. His Amigo takes turns attempting to kiss me on my lips. Jokingly, but with full intent. Uh . . .

Caballito, serious and humble, says again, “I like you.” He searches for words. Lifts his glasses to unveil the stunning blue of his eyes, “but, I don’t think I can give you want you want.”

I smirk. Amused. “And, what is it that you think I want?”

He stumbles with his words again. (At least, he speaks English.) “I don’t want to be your boyfriend. I just want to F___ you . . . . and I could.”
If anyone else said this, I would hit him, but, he is humble and simple. Awkward, as if he is a schoolboy. Genuine, and despite his words, not cocky. Either way, there will be no romance and/or sex with Caballito. I do hope that a friendship will bloom and result in horses and more random moments.

The weekend ends. I can’t bring myself to see Rediscoveringme. Too much time has passed. It seems as if it would be a meeting of physicality. . . and I have no interest in just sex. I need his soul first. And then I need the sex. Want it VERY MUCH. But, his soul is too far-gone when I am left here alone. I remember Marriedwithababy’s ending statements from last night after I turned both him and Shaker down. “What the hell are you interested in?” He was desperate to see me interested in someone, anyone. “Kiss a girl even!” “You must be asexual.”
And with a hmmmmph, he walked away.

And I thought and continue to do so, why am I unable to crave sex without affiliation, just pure raw sex? Maybe I should see Rediscoveringme, stop being so evasive. I am longing to feel alive. Longing to be one with him. Our bodies . . .

Parte 1. Los Americanos de “If you want my body and you think I am sexy” . . . Don’t tell me!

A random weekend. One chock full of straightforwardness. It reminds me of the time I smiled at drop-dead handsome man at the gym, amazed at my candor. I had returned from PR and I suppose the sun-kissed me, was also a more confident and secure me. Fast forward to him insisting on getting to know me right then and there. Initially, over coffee, which progressed to us on my roof. I assumed it was to continue chatting . . . yet as he breathed into my neck, he told me he only had interest in getting to know me physically. A perfect arrangement. We would be monogamous sex-buddies. I walked away from Mr. Handsome . .

So, this weekend has left me wondering . . . why am I so incapable and/or uninterested in only physical relationships and where is it written on me that I am the perfect candidate for such? Is this normal? Surely, it is known that for women, the emotional aspects of sex are crucial. But, I also doubt that all women are as cold as I? And is it common for men to be so straightforward?
Shaker, a friend of my ex’s, randomly texted me on Friday night stating he was at the El San Juan Hotel with his buddy, Marriedwithababy. I was giddy with excitement. I felt as if a gift from New York was here to satisfy my longing for the city and friends.

2am He is kissing me. Telling me how he always felt a connection, about the unexplored passion between us. How much he always wanted to get to know me. How he was drawn to me . . . yet, I was the ex. “Timing is everything,” he said.

Quizzically, I look and I said, what happened to your girlfriend. Aware that Shaker finally had a girlfriend from his birthday I attended a few weeks ago. He was happy. He was no longer the single bachelor, the typical guy of New York. Now in front me, he tells me, “She is still around. Perhaps, she is the one. My life is lacking passion.”

Ok. Great Shaker. So come have a passion infused weekend with me and cement the fact you should break up with her? Why is this so common? The comforting stage of relationships. Your heart is already gone, but your unmentionables need to stay?

I have no respect and/or empathy for people who stay in relationships past their expiration.
I leave the El San Juan Hotel. Erasing the ink of the laid-out itinerary for tomorrow. I want to hang out with them. Want to fill my New York void. However, my body is stuck in bed the entire day. In the evening, I go to dinner. Conveniently, an hour late. I ask for a glass of wine. He raises an eyebrow, “no cocktail?” No, I immerse myself in conversation with one of the other gentlemen. I enjoy myself, but I realize perhaps I turned my corner of the table into a private date. My body turned away from Shaker, I wanted to make it clear that I was not his.

Shaker, Marriedwithababy and I go to drinks afterwards. I am enjoying myself. We are laughing-it’s not an awkward affair. The evening continues. Then, Shaker restarts his engines.

Shaker: Attainingme, kiss me.
Me: No. You have a girlfriend.
Shaker: But, you agree there is something between us.
Me: It’s irrelevant.

At this point, I believe there was a rant asking for confirmation that we could go on a proper date and he would have a real shot if he broke up with his girlfriend. At some point during the rant, I turned from the object of pursuit into the evening pimp. Amazed at his admitted transparency–how evident his pure goal of sex was.

I gave a full run down of the girls that would be found in the lobby of La Concha: Attractive. Fashionable. Champagne drinkers. La Placita: Younger. Beer. Return to college days. El San Juan Hotel. We both agree that logistically, with his room upstairs, that this is perhaps, the best bet. However, we took a detour to Divas, a strip club. It was unlike the clubs in New York. Only lightly littered with some overweight men. It was dead. Depressing. Shaker found a girl with a nice bottom. Took her upstairs. Marriedwithababy turns to me. Makes his proposal. What the fuck am I? Why, oh why men? Someone restore my faith.

Continued . . .

Breaking in

5:00 am

Police just came into my apartment through a window. I woke up as they were trying to get in. I am fucking terrified. My heart feels like it is going to beat out of me. At the same point, I have never felt so alive. I feel tears on my face— not ones of emotion, but physical. This is so weird. I guess the alarm was going off in my building and they saw the light on in my room and climbed up here on the roof. My poor little heart. I can now understand how people can have heart attacks out of shock. I am rambling because I am most definitely, in shock. 

You like me so much? That’s why you disappeared, right?

What an odd and unexpected evening.

I left work and went to the gym. To my regular class. I critiqued my body. Felt fat, untoned. The comments by one of the trainers here ruled my thoughts.  The gym once was a place that always restored my positive body image. Working out and seeing my reflection once quieted any negative dialog that existed in other hours of the day. Yet tonight, I couldn’t shake feeling inadequate. I thought about what else I could do. I work out almost daily. I eat incredibly well, aside from the occasional depressive binge. While the image that stared back at me was anything but fat, I wondered what she really looked like. As if, I lost the ability to see myself. Perhaps, I should ask others if they see me as overweight. I entertained the idea and searched for some other body that resembled mine. A way to avoid the lies a mirror can tell.

After the gym, I was to get a drink and/or a bite to eat with Mr. AB, someone I briefly dated here on the island in my months of initiation. He has been outside my radar for the many months since. The brief conversations we had, informed me that he was in Dominican Republic, New York, Panama, anywhere but here . . .

I ran into him in New York at a crazy St. Barth-esque brunch two weeks ago. I believed he was with his girlfriend. Always polite, I had likened him to a friend. Our dating simply fizzled. No abrupt stop, but perhaps the way dating can dissipate when no one demands an answer and traveling serves as the distracter—the realization that it has cooled and lacked that effortless quality and permanence “the one” should elicit.

So, after our run-in at brunch, he has been in touch. He texted me yesterday upon Fortuno’s win. I suggested a drink and today he reached out. I expected to see him, and talk, mostly about business—for he always loved my understanding of his. Always stated how I am ultra-cool and simpatica (so much so, that I seriously thought he needed new friends.)

So tonight :

We meet. We drive. He reaches for my hand.

Advice wanted.

A quick update on the men:

So, as you know MattDamon let an imaginary relationship grow in his mind. This became apparent by his friends’ and colleagues’ comments at his gradation dinner. Recall, “So, this is the meeting of the parents! “

After this event and my avoiding his attempts to peck me on the lips as if we did it for everyday for the last ten years, MattDamon avoided the coffee shop where we spend our days working on laptops.

 Another fellow coffee-shopper, the Journalist, also works from there. The Journalist is also an acquaintance of MattDamon, albeit a new one. He too was at the graduation dinner. As we were chatting that evening, which we had done many times before, I sensed a spark of interest (he unaware of my assumed romantic status with MattDamon.) Jounalist had always disregarded me previously (so much so that he didn’t even recognize me when I had walked into the coffee shop from my two weeks in PR, so I was rather surprised to find a spark in his eye.)

I gave the Journalist my card as I fled that awkward evening. The next morning:

On 10/17/08 7:51 AM, the Journalist wrote:

Hey there,
Just adding you to my contacts before I forget. Here’s my info, case you need some editing help.
Good to see you last night.

Journalist
555.555.5555

On Oct 17, 2008, at 9:28 AM, Attainingme wrote:

Lol. Thanks. Way to make me feel brilliant first thing in the morning.

On Oct 17, 2008, at 10:49 AM, Journalist wrote:

Just kidding. Drop a line if you are out in hood later.
Btw  still embarrassed about not recognizing you yesterday 😉  

 

The night of the credit card incident, Journalist texted me. Feeling as if I lost my mind, I welcomed the opportunity to have a drink. Without money, I told him he had to purchase it. He obliged. We met at a small bar. Sat. Talked. Connected . . .

This was the start to our companionship that flourished until my leaving for PR last week–the companionship that has me feeling empty. I really miss him. We talk daily. We kissed while I was there. Nothing more. I spent the night and he did as well. He ventured with me on errands and to ride horses, hours working at cafes, a few dinners, and a couple parties. I enjoy him, but don’t foresee him as a boyfriend. The only potential boyfriend may be Dario, who will be dissected separately.

So, here is the dilemma:

As I mentioned MattDamon and Journalist are acquaintances, a growing friendship, a mutual respect. So, the Saturday before my departure to PR, after the companionship with the Journalist and I was budding, all three of us somehow ended up at the same bar. MattDamon was clueless that the Journalist and I had planned to meet each other. MattDamon left to go to another obligation. I was leaving soon as well. Ten minutes later, Journalist walked me out. MattDamon stood outside waiting—he waited ten mintues!!

MattDamon asked to walk me home.

One night in October, a cab ate my credit card.

As I jutted downtown in a cab from the Upper West Side at 11pm, I realized I wasn’t sure where my bankcard was. As I regularly only use this one, I searched my huge purse and wallet frantically, wondering what else I could possibly use. I took out a Discover Card, which has only been used for a balance transfer.

With it on my lap, I continued to search for my bankcard. By the time we reached 20^th Street, I could no longer find the Discover Card. Windows were closed. No doors had been open. Now, I had lost my mind and/or two cards. Perhaps, the cab ate it! An inch crack in the back of the seat sneered at me.

Upon arriving downtown, the cabbie offered that we would find it—it couldn’t have possibly disappeared. He took off the seat. Nothing. I felt that it was in the trunk. He said impossible. I ran upstairs and borrowed cash from the subletter. I gave the cab the money and searched for my mind, hoping it would be easier to find.