I see I’ve gotten ahead of myself in micro-analyzing why I did what I did, without going through how it’d unfolded.
Frank and I had been dating one month and, let me see, five days. Perhaps it seems odd I already regarded him as my boyfriend after this short a period of dating. I don’t know how hesitant you are in giving someone this title, but we spoke every day and met several times a week, always resulting in one of us staying over the other’s place, he’d helped me move into my apartment and met my parents, so I considered him my boyfriend.
The point is, I had not been looking to hurt Frank. I was not looking to complicate my life or call into question what I possessed and had spent so many hours trying to understand and embrace, namely, security, safety, centeredness, content, and normalcy. What I needed was just a bit more of what I had, and to appreciate what I already had just a bit more. I don’t like to think I’m a greedy person. No sensible person lives that way. I’ve always tried to be sensible, against my nature. I say that as if I knew my nature. I only know my habits.
I’d like to think it was neither my nature nor my habit that led to its happening. I’d like to think I accidentally left a door open and he came in, as if he’d been waiting. From where? What’s outside? Loneliness? Cold? Restlessness? Had he been wandering through many other unknown doors recently? I guess I’m just another girl with an open door.
I had just come home from a night at Frank’s place. I needed to wash off anal sex and the odious chemicals my body emits each night. I convince myself it’s the medication I take that my body is releasing, but part of me fears that maybe, inside, my nature isn’t clean. It could be normal, my night sweats. I don’t go around rubbing women when they’ve just woken up. And it’d been over a year since I last woke up next to Angela. I think she smelled of a limited edition Chanel perfume. It seems a pity, to know her smell was in limited supply, running out by the moment. I wonder if she still smells this way or has moved on to another fragrance. Three years ago, I bought a candle from Aveda whose “Madagascar” aroma reminded me of her bedroom. Sometimes I let myself remove its metal lid and be transported to that ancient witchy place, but I’d never burn it in my own room. It’s not me. I’m not her. And besides, the candle was terribly expensive.
My needing to shower was a pivotal detail on which the plot hangs, mind you. Due to the simple fact my shower beckoned, I didn’t wait to turn off my instant messaging program, as I always do after I turn on my computer. I hate IM programs. I hate hanging by the computer, waiting, waiting, waiting for recognition, a reply, not knowing if they’ve left me there, stupidly needy, my interest unreciprocated, my eyes blurring over. I suppose it’s possible to blame Frank’s wanting anal sex the previous evening for my needing a shower and, hence, my not shutting off my IM program. I suppose he set it all in motion?
When I returned from my shower, I found an IM from someone with the screen name E E, an uppercase tribute to e e cummings perhaps? I never did ask him. Yes, I vaguely remembered him. He had responded to an ad I’d posted in Boston’s Craigslist over six months ago: “curiouser and curiouser w4m 22.” My nod to rabbit holes, croquet, and surprising adventures.
I’d responded to his initial message to me, but hadn’t responded to his next. He didn’t pursue the interaction and I didn’t save the emails. His email name was James Joyce—the pretension had annoyed me, it still does. I don’t call myself Lewis Carroll just because I like Alice in Wonderland, after all. No no, Joyce groupies are a breed unto themselves. Brooding would-be intellectuals simmering with self-inflicted tragedy. Black turtlenecks sipping black coffee. Okay okay, I was making an assumption, but when a girl has hundreds of strangers asking to meet her, she gets big in the head, she passes judgments on a whim. Her being me.
But here he was again, on my screen. Why did I respond? How could I resist? It was the call of a beloved, old friend: curiosity. Now that I was dating Frank, I was no longer searching or posting on Craigslist, no longer receiving avowals of lust and infatuation from the anonymous outside world. I missed the empty oaths and potential connections, the shadows, the intrigue, the gorgeous chance of the game. I must sound like an addict, but addiction suggests victimhood, a lack of control or responsibility. I don’t blame the internet. I had a choice and I chose to find out more.
P.S. For some provocatively spooky Carroll-esque art, check out Meghan Boody’s work at Looking Glass Labs: Incident at the Reformatory.
Tags: Alice in Wonderland, anal sex, Aveda candle, Chanel perfume, cheating, Craigslist, dating, e e cummings, infidelity, internet dating, James Joyce, Lewis Carroll, looking glass labs, meghan boody, rabbit hole, relationships, shower
April 17, 2009 at 11:10 am |
:-)