Drift

 She stretched lazily as she lay there overpopulating my bed by a factor of one, but I was not one to complain. I don't like to burden my friends with my complaints, and besides she wasn't wearing a stitch of clothes and her stretch was a thing to fascinate and admire. She knew that of course, which was probably why she 'leaned in' the stretch as much as she did. Like I said she knew what she was doing, and she knew exactly what that stretch was doing to me. It wasn't higher math, just simple visual reminder of what I had, for the moment managed to capture. It was unlikely to last, most things in my life are unlikely to last, but for the nonce I was going to enjoy it as much as a fat man enjoys his pancakes.

At the "apex" of her wonderful to behold stretch, she said "I am your lover, not your friend, you realize that don't you?" I hadn't but I figured that saying that wouldn't be in my best interest, so instead I gave what I hoped was a non committal grunt. She rolled over to her stomach, and gave me a hard glare. "Don't be thinking that some non committal grunt is going to be an acceptable answer cowboy." I tried another non verbal answer but my heart wasn't in it. At this point, I was just trying to keep this situation from going rapidly to hell, pity that I am not great at keeping things from going to hell in a hand basket at a terrifying speed. My heart began to race, and my mind started to reel like a drunken sailor awakened from a fever dream, and trying to get used to being stuck on dry land. For a sailor, dry land sucks a whole lot of ass, and I had the feeling I was about to know the feeling. 

The impression that I was getting, and that was soon to be proven correct was that she was about to tell me some 'hard' truths that I wasn't going to be happy to hear. Since I was also wearing nothing but a lingering smile left over from our latest bout of playing 'hide the sausage' I wasn't exactly in a position to do anything but listen. I sighed trying to limit the damage as much as possible (a futile but faint hope). "I am guessing there is a speech behind this pithy little comment?" She nodded slightly. "Of course there is sunshine. I don't make pithy comments for the sake of making them. You, of all people, should know this by now." I had the feeling that my sunshine was about to be taken away, but buck naked in your own bed wasn't the time to attempt to flee the jurisdiction. 

"The point of that comment was to let you know that I am not obligated to like you. I fuck you, and I rather enjoy it, but I do not, and can not like you." All I could think to say was the brilliant response of "huh?" At least my mouth wasn't agape like some country bumpkin seeing the big city for the first time, but I doubt my expression was far off of it. She sighed like she was attempting to explain simple math to a dullard (which in some ways she was) and said "lover, you are poison. Pretty poison, tasty poison, but poison nonetheless." My stomach, or was it my heart lurched a bit at that. I felt like I was about to take a fall from some very high terrain, and I wasn't wearing a helmet or a parachute. I suspected that I would not be 'sticking the landing' as the saying goes. 

I felt like the only person wearing clothes at a nudist colony, awkward and wishing I was anywhere but here. But, here was my own bed, and I was, in fact, naked as a jaybird so perhaps that analogy didn't quite work. All I could think to do was brazen it out, and hope for the best. I doubted it would work, but the gods smile on fools and children. However, today the gods seemed to have other plans that did not involve smiling in my general direction. Pity that. She continued "you are not exactly a monster, but you give them a run for their money. You are very, very hard to like. Fun to fuck, but damn near impossible to like. It is very hard to understand, and if I were to try to explain this to me mother, she would think I was a mad as a March hare." 

I nodded, what else was I supposed to do? Add some brilliant comment that I didn't have to hand? Try to distract her with another roll in the hay? The refraction period hadn't quite passed, and the "better part" of me wasn't quite ready for round 2 (or was it 3). Therefore, it would seem I was pretty much trapped in place, and would not be able to fuck my way out of this. She gave me a very intense look, and said "look pretty boy. You need to hear this, It will, eventually, help you quite a bit. It won't be a lot of fun to hear but you need to hear it anyway." I sighed, "maybe I do, but godsdam I need a drink first, is it alright if I toddle off to the kitchen and grab a bit of john barleycorn?" She smiled "sure lover, bring us back both a glass, maybe I'll need to whet my whistle whilst telling you this tale."

I briefly considered running away and joining the French Foreign Legion, but I suspected that really wouldn't help matters a whole lot. She seemed to type to figure it out, and send me a letter to whatever dusty outpost on the frontier of nowhere for me to read over and over again. I really didn't think legging it would help, so I grabbed a couple of glasses, a bottle of my best whiskey, and headed back to hear why I wasn't worth being her friend. 

I handed her a glass with a generous portion of the nectar of the gods in it, and hoped for the best. More the fool to me, "you know I am not a whiskey drinker pretty boy, but I will indulge you this once. Also, I am not going to let drunk, charming you take over this little chat. I clinked glasses with her, "perish the thought my dear, why would drunk me be any better at this that sober me? It's going to be slightly awkward and probably a bit weird, and I doubt being drunk would fix that."

She took her glass, and drank a solid measure of the whiskey I had poured her, and said "you stupid son of a bitch, if you had been anything close to human we wouldn't be having this conversation. If you were willing to admit you have something resembling feelings and could express those feelings, we wouldn't be here. Well we would still be here (she waved a hand to encompass our current physical whereabouts) but we would be having a much different talk. You are a fucking robot." How does one reply to being called a robot? Hallmark does not make a card for this situation. Was I supposed to tell that I was a lost cause (similar to the Confederacy), and tell her not to waste her time on me? Our time together, as you could tell, had its advantages in the physical sense Was I supposed to tell her about being broken inside? Explain to her that her predecessor in interest had taken the feelings she wanted me to have and broken them in half?

Try that sometime, try telling the (current) woman in your life that she's better off without you. You are unselling yourself. You're trying to convince someone to tell you to fuck off. While it is probably in her best interest, it is not something you like to hear on a regular basis. If you are afraid of being alone, it is not the best idea. You are probably talking to someone who has already made up their mind about what you and her are going to be, and trying to change a woman's mind is about as difficult as breaking into Fort Knox. 

I shrugged and said "I have not been perfect for you, and I guess we will probably just drift apart, but ponder this as you are sweeping me out of your life like a dust bunny. While I haven't been the man you want, I have been the man you need. And while we can't go back and restart this we can at least come to some understanding going forward. We aren't in this for fame are we?" The look in her eyes was priceless in many ways, and in many ways a sign of impending doom. She shook her lovely head, and said "GI, you are a damn fool, I am not looking into those pretty blue eyes of yours and finding the love of my life. As much as I wish that was possible, you just aren't capable of it."

I had to admit she was right, me being the love of anyone's life was laughable. If I was the love of your life, then you had wasted your life. So I lied both on the bed, and to her, and I told her that I was fine with her being my lover, but not my friend. It was, in many ways, one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. After all, it seems that my 'talent' or 'gift' was to get princesses to call me a knight, but never call me a friend. And sometimes all a man really, really needs is a friend.  

 

 

 

 

Mal

 I like to play darts. I am bad at darts. I lose a lot more dart games than I win. However, that does not stop me from playing darts. When I lose at darts, which is most of the time that is all that happens. I lost at darts. No one really cares. The fellow I am playing cares just a bit, because I now owe him a pint, but no one else cares. There is no master of darts standing behind me gnashing his teeth over my 100th failure to hit the triple 20. No one is there to bemoan the fact that my darts are blue not red. We all know that red darts are better than blue darts. It is common knowledge. Common enough to make it hardly worth knowing at all. I just don't like the colour red. 

I like to play cards. I am not very good, or lucky at cards. I lose a lot more card games than I win. This doesn't lower my value as a human being. It lowers my bank account, but that is my fault for risking my money on a loser. Rarely does the person taking my money deign to offer sage advice on how I could have done better. Generally, they don't want me to do better. It is a simple relationship. They see that I am bad, and they keep their whore mouths shut about it because it enriches them. Simple enough, and I appreciated them for their silence. 

I like to read. I read a lot. I read a lot of obscure stuff that sometimes tilts over into the realm of boredom. Some of what I read is complicated stuff, and since I am stupid, most of it sails gently over my head. After all, if I split infinitives, I am surely too stupid to understand Peter Heather trying to explain the causes of the fall of the Roman Empire. It is a pity. Peter Heather is a very clever lad, and his book, if I was smart enough to understand the big words, would probably be very enjoyable. However, since I am burdened with an overlarge case of the stupids, most of it remains a mystery to me. Pity that, but at least I knew that when I bought the book. Luckily for Peter Heather, the sale makes him money, not me understanding it. If I understood it made him the money, then Peter Heather would be bankrupt.

I like to eat pizza. Pizza makes me, at least momentarily, happy. It does not bring me the type of joy that winning the Super Bowl would, but I am unlikely to ever play in or win the Super Bowl. Pizza is available to me at my local market daily. Sadly, pizza also makes me fat(ter). Most things that bring me joy make me fat. I guess that is also somehow my fault, but it is just the way of the world. I've the fat gene, and I am lazy. Therefore, looking at pizza makes me gain weight, eating it makes things worse, at least regarding the scale.  

I used to like to write. Focus in that simple grammatically correct sentence is on the words “used to.” I have lost my joy in writing. Not because I am bad at it, of course I am, I am bad at most things I do. After all, I still play cards, darts, and still eat pizza. Being bad at something never stopped me from at least giving it a go. Then again, no one stands over me reminding me how bad I am at those things constantly. I am not sure if you can be bad at eating pizza, but if you can I am sure I will manage it. However, Bobby Flay isn’t there to tell me that the cheese is not melted enough to bring out all its majestic flavour. It’s fucking cheese, it is generally not majestic.

Neither is my writing. However, luckily for me I have legions of people who are more than willing, and quite happy to tell me how poor it is. Legions of card-carrying grammar Nazis who clutch their pearls every time I fail to put a fucking comma in the right spot. Trust me, I have new, inventive places to put that comma that offends your tender soul, but you might not enjoy it as much as you’d think. Subject/verb agreement doesn’t make me as hot as a June bride riding bareback, and for that I make no apology. If the “U” I put in the word colour offends you, well fuck you, and the pink and purple jackass you rode in on. I am sure that 50 Shades of Grey is a master class of proper grammar and letter-perfect spelling. I encourage you to read it. There are other things I would encourage you to try, but you’d probably get upset that I misspelt the word defenestration, (which, for the record, I didn’t).

All this is to say that perhaps the slings and arrows have stuck. Perhaps Felix’s story will have to remain untold because I can’t properly use a semi colon and have no desire to learn. I suppose you could say that maybe someone with actual talent will come along and save poor Felix from the dustbin of literary history, but they won’t. Not because the talented fellow isn’t out there, he is no doubt of it.  But simply because Felix’s story is mine to tell, and since I am so very bad at the spelling as opposed to the telling, then Felix and his fate will remain unknown to everyone but me. Which might just be best for us all. I don’t have to think too hard about it, and the pearls can be freed from the clutching hands holding them. All in all, I suppose it’s a win/win, but it sure doesn’t feel like it at the moment.

I tried to make this post simple. I tried to use short, simple sentences that didn’t contain too many words. I failed, but then again what did you Nazis expect? You win, and I hope you enjoy 50 Shades. For the nonce at least. I will leave you with another simple, short, and grammatically correct sentence. Fuck you. (see how easy it is, hard to fuck up a two word sentence).