The unavailable female

The episodic heart. The running dialogues in my mind, their words . . .  they change. They vary from pain to understanding to my own admittance of fault.

That evening A stated, “love and drama go hand in hand.” I know the guest was a female. My intuition says she arrived, and most likely arrives most Thursdays (the one day I historically have not been here) and to her dismay, he rushed down, wouldn’t allow her up. Women are not stupid. I am sure she understood the reason. But, perhaps he lied. Said his parents were in town. They in truth come tomorrow.

He looked at me with eyes covered in a film of red. Whatever happened was not easy. He was destroyed. “Drama and love go hand in hand.” He proceeded to tell me I am not like my gender, and that i have things to learn about love. To watch ‘Valentine’s Day.’ The irony. I sat quiet, same half smile that I wore upon his arrival. I offered nothing. My insides in opposition, screamed with fury. I wondered how this was getting turned around on me. I imagined him now falling into a lustful, intimate, emotional relationship with whoever came below. I was wrong as he asked me to go away for Fourth of July . . . a trip like Memorial Day that had been preplanned and was now ripe for the taking.

I still have not confronted him. The few friends I’ve told, perplexed. My mind has traveled to so many places and often, feels too logical, too cold. I will explain my perspective later. But, the summarized version is our relationship lacked something weeks ago, that is the problem. The lack of sex, of intimacy, and the other females all go hand in hand. I will not fall and/or stay in a relationship without the first two, and the first two cannot exist with the last. So, if the relationship grows, if we remove our walls, then the rest is relevant. Until then the countries my mind will visit . . . and perhaps the other men I will let in.

xx

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My Tiger Woods

The story. 10pm 6/1/10

The buzzer rings unexpectedly. We had just arrived home. The doorman’s voice through the intercom echoes, “You have a guest here.” A replies hurriedly, “I’ll come down.”

As I unbutton my dress, laying the night to bed, I question who it was. I thought a dealer as A has an affinity for weed.  Five minutes pass, then ten. I notice his phone on the island and perplexed as to what could be taking so long, I look for an answer. No texts, no missed calls. My fingers continue to scroll through a history, one that paralleled us . . . 

What I discovered was more than one could ever fathom. Impossible. Not just a double-life, but multiple. A storied existence. The trashy thong I found in the bed long ago was reduced to child’s play.  Alexandra, Erica, Celine, Julia, Anne Marie, Ila– too many to count. Female emotions splayed via texts.

My heart palpitated as I expected him to arrive any moment. My desire to peek was countered by a fear of being discovered; ironic, as it was he who had been uncovered.

Time passed without his return. I took notes in an attempt to put it all together. Perplexed since I had been there almost every night for the past month. When, where, how?  Many of the texts were waning from previous encounters that seemed once regular.

Ila “You are the only man I love. If only we could be together. Why don’t you respond.”

Julia “You are mia.” “Where are you?” “We weren’t safe last night. I am worried . . . ” “FIne. I get it. You have a girlfriend now.” (I question as to where this came from as I still withhold any terms)

Erica “Laying in bed thinking of you” “Had a great time last night”

2am one evening, Alexandra Hustler “Can I bring Celine too? Another “$300 right?”

Anne-Marie “His tuition is due tomorrow- $22,000”

“Congratulations on your award”- from quite a few.

Erica 6am Memorial Day Weekend “I am at terminal 3 waiting. Just landed.” He had flown the company jet separately. Ancient texts show this trip long planned.

 

And then he arrives. 11:30. His eyes red. I say nothing. I smile. He starts. Amazing how much one will say when not asked. . .

To be continued . .

Intimacy Issues, A new chapter

I haven’t written much and so here is the backgound to my next post. My life now a vast departure from the days of sand between my toes and wind flying through my hair as I rode my horse through untouched Puerto Rico. My surroundings now are touched, built up, the concrete schoolyard of New York City. Work is now aligned with my passions, but my soul left elsewhere. I am with A. Our relationship, slow in its intimacy, but intriguing, a long juicy novel that seems never ending. He is my Tiger Woods. Charismatic, successful, funny, and generous.  Unfortunately, I, Elin.

He has let me into his life. My dog and I now stay, basically living, in his Tribeca sprawling elegant apartment. He travels and I stay. I am careful to invade. With precision, I strive to keep my belongings unobtrusive. An easy task in grand living.

Our life amazing. However, with the slow progress towards coupledom, our sex life has flailed in the opposing direction. Intimacy issues. The platitude. I care enough to stay. To see my own faults. Take note of my lack of words, the emotions I hold close. Our actions speak loud, but not loud enough. Two salts. I, better with pepper.

Puppeteer

36 red roses sit in front of me, bought by me, for A’s place. I am staying with him in New York and although, we met six months ago, I still await passion, vulnerability and nuances of emotions being splayed.

I am, however, still drawn. Still happy being in his presence. Drawn to his bed, to his body, despite how foreign. As if we are buddies, intrigued by each other but not crazed. Oddly, I don’t fear losing feelings. Perhaps those feelings are not ones of lust, not heightened, but they are safe. I really like him. I will not find myself in a month’s time playing puppeteer, holding the strings to his heart.

This provides comfort and elation for I am THE puppeteer. My hands fumble strings knotted as hearts decide that I am simply too busy. It pains me and I wonder if this is the source of the oddity between A and I. It’s as if I am too much a man. Too in control. Not soft. Emotional or vulnerable.

And then there is my mind’s match. I met him a week ago and as he told a common friend, I want to cuddle with her brain. I too want to cuddle with his. Talk to him every moment, but my friends assure me, it’s just a crush. I suppose we aren’t your standard deviation, perfect match . . .

So now not only am I once again living parallel lives, the New York girl and the one in Puerto Rico, I am living subparallels. The girl I am with My Mind’s Match is a girl that sleeps with A, dormant traits. I am a combination of too many people in one body and a puppeteer no less.

but of course . . .

I transition back to New York, I open doors and prove my value, perhaps, just to say goodbye with a I don’t need you, you need me. Time will tell.  This is my professional life at the moment.

My love life is becoming but a joke. A client asked me yesterday, I am sure you had many valentine’s. And I could only laugh and decline comment.
It is only 11 this morning and four correspondences with hearts pointed in my direction . .

From Jonas:

“I  miss your company, talking to you, going somewhere with you, being in bed with you. You really are my muse, you inspire me.”

From my ex:

Quoted, Una Palabra

“If one day you need me, I will be nothing
And at the same time I will be everything
Because in your eyes are my wings
And the shore where I drown,
Because in your eyes are my wings
And the shore where I drown”

A.

Is in Australia. He looks for moments, hidden minutes, updates me on itinerary. The past two weeks have brought us together. Have connected us. I think we may be dating. It offers me highs and butterflies. But, I am all too aware, that relatively, he offers me nothing. When one is used to scraps, an offered bite, is blessed . . Keep perspective. We will see. But, I am happy . . .

I think he is finally falling for me, my darling.

But of course, a stolen kiss from a new player, Genius, and I realize the ironic possibility of hurting A. who was so emotionally caught off.

And oh, there’s more, I am supposed to have dinner with another . . .

I was not built to break

My breath cannot breathe. Suffocated by the inertia that surrounds me, the lies I have learned. A fog envelops me this morning, the bed beckons me. But it offers no true refuge, an escape escapes me.

I reach, I reach deep into my heart. And I plead, I plead for my inner will. I search for the strength so seemingly eluding. The mountain’s face continues to loom. I am so tired of climbing. Disbelief at the challenges that face me.

I think of my life. The world that I dance on top of. The black ferrari in which I sat as we flew down the FDR. The check. The meetings. The movies. The sphere of the influential and the famous building in which I now sit. The surface so vastly different than the truth and the maze in which consumes my heart. To be on the brink of something so great. My energies question their ability to continue. But, I know. I know that this is not forever.

And I return to working on eliciting the change in which I desire. The cement to the world my toes are immersed in . . .

And I listen to Whitney Houston’s, “I Didn’t Know My Own Strength.”

And I pick myself back up.

Hold my head up high.

I was not built to break.

Everything Matters

Everything Matters . . and everything comes at once.

“It’s the image of a kid . . . a boy let’s say, sitting on the curb, looking around, slightly confused, not sure where he is or even quite who he is. And then an image of a girl, who notices him and stops. She reaches out her hand to him and he takes it. She says nothing, except with that one simple gesture she says the thing that matters most. And that’s – ‘it will be ok.’

And since then, somehow, somehow in many different ways, I have felt inexorably tied to you. Can’t deny that really – I love you even though at the same time you manage to both baffle and frustrate me.

And since then we’ve danced around each other – lovers, friends, other . .

The email continues. My heart skips beat. I laugh out loud. I smile and I also pause. He goes on to speak about a hidden me.

“Since the very beginning I started observing things about you, seeing things, and I suppose the conservationist never let go. I’m sorry – I guess it’s why I could never fully let go even when I pretended I could. I just never knew who I was falling for, so deep down without noticing I setup a natural barrier. And I waited…

I’m not sure exactly what I’ve been waiting for – I suppose a hunch that there was always something left out.”

And how he has danced around its discovery. Waiting to perhaps see and/or to not see something. I can only wonder if he was waiting to be dissuaded. Find out why I possibly wasn’t the one to love . . yet, the feelings, the dreams, and me have never left him—I, a low humming frequency in the life he leads.

I always equated his diatribes, his dissertation-like emails regarding his feelings for me to I being a placard–the justification, the excuse, that he is alone—why he breaks hearts, left and right. I always doubted this love he speaks of. We are so different. But, should it be real, I worry that I will hurt him for this apathetic New York bachelor is a façade for the man I met on that corner so many years ago. A man that still breathes somewhere underneath his hardened exterior. His words today are the first I trust. And perhaps this love he has for me is because I am the only one that knows these breaths?

I don’t know how to respond. I return to New York. To A, to new beginnings of which KidRobot does not yet know. In Puerto Rico, Caballito and I remain close, an entirely different story, one that was cemented by a tragedy . . .

And my life baffles me.