Love, like God or Truth, was not an idea I ever took very seriously or had much to say about. Especially when it came to romantic relationships. I knew lust and sexual desire very well, too well. So well that I couldn’t see, think, or feel anything else. It was like a fixed eclipse, a trance, a stupor that I could only shake by bringing myself to orgasm. The relief was always fleeting, the clarity an evanescent reminder of my habitually dim, downward longings. Should have grown up in a world where the shackles of religion protected the world from my impulses. Compulsory belief to quiet the raging demon. Put to the yoke of production, reproduction, of sacrifice and the bliss of thereafter, if only to provide some peace of mind in the here and now. Instead I was granted a terrible gift, for me and the world. The freedom of unbelief, the wide open, empty expanse of commercially enhanced desire.
At first I was frustrated by my lack of partners. It took a long time for me to stop getting in my own way, to stop overthinking, second guessing, and hesitating. If there was a doubt I seized it. If there was a reason to quit I found it. But all of that doubting and thinking and speculating and fantasizing was actually a kind of training, a moulding of a very dangerous and charming personality. A chameleonic, kaleidoscopic vision that could see all angles and shapes, and knew, through experience, which ones to take. Always had the right words, the right demeanor, relaxed, confident, playful, sexy, steady but not overbearing, clever but not clownish, mysterious but not withdrawn. I forgot the formulas, even the inner monologue. It was an automatic and uninhibited improvisation that suited the exact woman and the moment that enveloped us. Part of what made it so compelling and addictive was the minor shock it gave me every time it worked. Made me feel like a kid again because I never went in with expectations. It might be difficult to think of someone having extreme confidence without expecting a specific outcome, but that is what I achieved.
I think that is why I was so attractive. I knew girls were almost instantly comfortable with me, and still turned on. They knew, they felt, whether or not they could explain it to themselves, that they could let go with me, and if they had a change of heart, they were safe, and I wouldn’t push them. They were very quick to open up about how the typical man would clumsily, aggressively advance on them. Or on the opposite end, how a diffident man would passively put pressure on them and make them uncomfortable with cloying gestures. I wanted sex, and I made it clear enough with just a touch of ambiguity, so that they felt it was just as much their idea, and they didn’t need to feel judged for it. Neither one night lay nor lifetime commitment, surfing, skating, sliding right into the pussy.
All the time lost though, all those conversations, performances thrown into the abyss. The physical pleasure secondary to the true gain, the satisfaction of knowing you had done it again, that you could keep doing it over and over. I had enough of a conscience to know I was, in the end, still hurting people, including myself. It didn’t actually feel good to think about attracting someone and then completely vanishing from their life. I knew that they were lying to themselves, at least a little. They said they were okay with short term arrangements, brief affairs. But they usually grew attached, without saying as much. It was in their eyes and their voices, the wavering tone of their goodbyes, and the texts months later. Sometimes I felt a nearly overwhelming urge to just care for one of them, to hold them and promise them forever. It wasn’t enough. I could never do it.
The man I could have been had I not been a man…
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