The Razor on my Private Water Slide
“Only good girls keep diaries. Bad girls don't have time.” - Tallulah Bankhead
I’ve been a very naughty girl these past six weeks.
Aside from work and keeping tabs on the innumerable nuts I know getting engaged or procreating, the last six weeks have been a veritable whirling dervish of lasciviousness, fury, tenderness, perturbation, anxiety, longing, absolute surprise, and warmth.
The rocket scientist debacle freed me up to guiltlessly pursue a more serious interest, and I am proud to say I have finally slept with someone who actually attended my university. Only took several dozen and a year since graduation to get there. Holmes (as he shall henceforth be known) is sarcastic without being pretentious, friendly without being overwhelming, passionate without being careless, and a sailor-swearing, chain smoking, White Russian drinking, hell of a boy. Naturally, I liked him from the start. What initially began as affable banter quickly evolved into wicked debauchery. Fantastic. Everyone has their shadows, and it was only a matter of time before his came into view. Gradually phone calls took longer to return, plans were broken, and interest waned. Sadly, there is only so much phenomenal sex can compensate for. Holmes claims that he is doing me a disservice, and I’m inclined to agree. He suggested Platonism, and I reluctantly conceded what all girls dread conceding—he’s just not that into me.
Only slightly worse for the wear (sometimes yoga isn’t enough), I carried on my merry way. Then, only a week later, at 1:00 am on Friday night, I received this text message:
Holmes: “Are you working tonight?”
What the fuck? Booty calls are neither platonic, nor appreciated. Thank you for visiting Easytown. Y’all come back now.
As a sidebar, on the five year anniversary of losing my virginity I fucked Boy Blue an hour before heading over to fuck Holmes. It was by far the most licentious four hours of my life. Perhaps I can’t pass for a tourist in Easytown, but that doesn’t mean I’ve made it my permanent residence.
Throughout it all, there’s one constant. I think we all know what I’m talking about here. I know that I promised to end the commentary, but it has to get out somewhere. Trust that I’m even more disappointed in myself than you are. The S continues to be my trusted friend, and a big time bee in my bonnet. We haven’t seen each other in three months or so. We’ve tried to be friends, but I am fervent believer in the old adage—friends can become lovers, but lovers can never become friends. Our inner imps peek out, and usually sooner rather than later, we’re back to our old antics again. The trouble is, it feels as though no matter where I stand, I’m always on the wrong side. I can’t stop myself from thinking of the other girls who’ve couriered and lost his favor over the years. I can’t help but imagine the ones lustily looming on the horizon. I can’t keep from oscillating between the feeling that I’m somehow fading and the feeling that I was never really there to begin with. I couldn’t keep tears from welling up in my eyes as I read through conquests and tenderness that I never seem to illicit or provide. I couldn’t keep my heart from pounding as I thought of the pristine novelty, furtive pleasure, and superficial contentment that they would inevitably share, and yet I was somehow deservingly denied. I couldn’t stop the flow when I realized that I am the supreme and interminable fool.
Overwhelmed, and on the verge of tears, I only begrudgingly opened my office door when my boss knocked with a package. Unlike clandestine letters, there is no way to mistake a flower delivery. The long narrow boxes are far from ambiguous. Inside was the first floral gift I’ve received from someone who knew me well enough to give my favorite flowers.
I’ll likely spend the rest of the night sorting through 100 pink, purple, white, orange, and yellow Peruvian lilies, vainly trying to decide which one is my favorite. There never was, and always is, a unanswered question.
I’ve been a very naughty girl these past six weeks.
Aside from work and keeping tabs on the innumerable nuts I know getting engaged or procreating, the last six weeks have been a veritable whirling dervish of lasciviousness, fury, tenderness, perturbation, anxiety, longing, absolute surprise, and warmth.
The rocket scientist debacle freed me up to guiltlessly pursue a more serious interest, and I am proud to say I have finally slept with someone who actually attended my university. Only took several dozen and a year since graduation to get there. Holmes (as he shall henceforth be known) is sarcastic without being pretentious, friendly without being overwhelming, passionate without being careless, and a sailor-swearing, chain smoking, White Russian drinking, hell of a boy. Naturally, I liked him from the start. What initially began as affable banter quickly evolved into wicked debauchery. Fantastic. Everyone has their shadows, and it was only a matter of time before his came into view. Gradually phone calls took longer to return, plans were broken, and interest waned. Sadly, there is only so much phenomenal sex can compensate for. Holmes claims that he is doing me a disservice, and I’m inclined to agree. He suggested Platonism, and I reluctantly conceded what all girls dread conceding—he’s just not that into me.
Only slightly worse for the wear (sometimes yoga isn’t enough), I carried on my merry way. Then, only a week later, at 1:00 am on Friday night, I received this text message:
Holmes: “Are you working tonight?”
What the fuck? Booty calls are neither platonic, nor appreciated. Thank you for visiting Easytown. Y’all come back now.
As a sidebar, on the five year anniversary of losing my virginity I fucked Boy Blue an hour before heading over to fuck Holmes. It was by far the most licentious four hours of my life. Perhaps I can’t pass for a tourist in Easytown, but that doesn’t mean I’ve made it my permanent residence.
Throughout it all, there’s one constant. I think we all know what I’m talking about here. I know that I promised to end the commentary, but it has to get out somewhere. Trust that I’m even more disappointed in myself than you are. The S continues to be my trusted friend, and a big time bee in my bonnet. We haven’t seen each other in three months or so. We’ve tried to be friends, but I am fervent believer in the old adage—friends can become lovers, but lovers can never become friends. Our inner imps peek out, and usually sooner rather than later, we’re back to our old antics again. The trouble is, it feels as though no matter where I stand, I’m always on the wrong side. I can’t stop myself from thinking of the other girls who’ve couriered and lost his favor over the years. I can’t help but imagine the ones lustily looming on the horizon. I can’t keep from oscillating between the feeling that I’m somehow fading and the feeling that I was never really there to begin with. I couldn’t keep tears from welling up in my eyes as I read through conquests and tenderness that I never seem to illicit or provide. I couldn’t keep my heart from pounding as I thought of the pristine novelty, furtive pleasure, and superficial contentment that they would inevitably share, and yet I was somehow deservingly denied. I couldn’t stop the flow when I realized that I am the supreme and interminable fool.
Overwhelmed, and on the verge of tears, I only begrudgingly opened my office door when my boss knocked with a package. Unlike clandestine letters, there is no way to mistake a flower delivery. The long narrow boxes are far from ambiguous. Inside was the first floral gift I’ve received from someone who knew me well enough to give my favorite flowers.
I’ll likely spend the rest of the night sorting through 100 pink, purple, white, orange, and yellow Peruvian lilies, vainly trying to decide which one is my favorite. There never was, and always is, a unanswered question.
posted by The Husskateer at 8:46 PM
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