Slippery Slope

Slippery Slope
@aladreth, copyright 2014

"Did you read my story?"
"I dare not for fear it is about me."


This is only a story.  Sure, there are true parts.  But mainly? Only a story.

There is a sexy, sassy Black girl on Facebook who has a group and she publishes these cheeky quips about sex in the form of jpegs.  There was one I will never forget.  It said something like, "If you ain't getting laid at least twice a week, your partner is getting it somewhere else."

I couldn't stop wondering about this.  Oh, how things become settled in our minds.

Reminded me of another saying I had found many, many years ago, I had also engraved in my head and heart.

"In every relationship there is one who loves more than the other one, and I'm that one."

Or something like that ... close enough.

I found that saying while snooping around at the office.

When everyone left for the day, I liked to snoop around in their desks and see what sort of things they had.

Angela kept pens that didn't work because they had some special meaning for her. I 'called' her on it one day and she got all offended. Freak.

Renee's desk looked like she was 40 going on 11.  She had little toys and pink princess shite everywhere.  She never grew up.

Karen's desk added to the rumours she was a lesbian.  She kept magazine cut outs of women in suggestive poses and especially Cindy Crawford.  She really liked Cindy.

Roberto's desk was the most interesting.  Roberto was cheating on his wife and kept all of the gifts his mistress gave him in the drawers on the right side of his desk and all the letters his wife wrote him on the left side.

She knew or suspected, I guess, because she wasn't getting laid twice a week.

According to the letters, she had not been laid by Roberto for five years.  In this case, Queen (the sexy, sassy Black girl from Facebook) was correct because Roberto was getting laid a lot.

Roberto couldn't fit all the gifts he received from his mistress in his desk, so very often, I would go home with plants and chocolate she had purchased him, tags removed.  He saved the tags in the drawers of his desk.

Sometimes I would get jealous of the things he would keep and not give me.  I'd ask him, "Why are you giving me THIS and not THAT?" He would chuckle and come up with a reason or two. I don't think he knew I looked in his desk.  He probably figured he had told me enough and I knew about the affair so why would I go in his desk.

Why would I. Why would I just.

Where I found that quote about one person loving more than the other person in a relationship was on the left side of Roberto's desk.  In a drawer, a long letter from his wife.  Sixteen pages to be exact.  Lots of handwritten pages, I'm sure some tear stained, rehashing their years together and how he had cheated before and how she had not been fucked in five years.  Lots of things about her kids and previous marriages and how he probably hit his first wife. (She said she knew but didn't tell.) Just lots of things I didn't really understand.

But, I understood when she said she was the one who loved more in the relationship and how she always was that person.

I guess, because I have been that person myself.

Even when men I've been with have argued they loved me more than I loved them, I would have to say under my breath, "You just don't know."

I held back with some because they would run screaming for the hills if they ever experienced it - but I've always loved more.

And more.

They call that 'complex.'  At least I've been called that before.  As an excuse for loving.  For loving more.

I met a fellow named Rudolph.  A seemingly common guy, we sat talking about all sorts of things.  Some I didn't care about at all; sports, war, politics, video games and so on, but there was enough I did care about that I listened and he was a good conversationalist and the coffee was nice.

As things progressed in our conversation, he shared with me he was celibate.  He had been celibate for ten years.  I looked at him very hard, when he told me.  He wasn't bad looking, he was a fit man, in his fifties, seemed well spoken, intelligent and had already told me he had a son and an ex wife and ex girlfriends, so I knew he had to have had sex at some point.

He went on to explain he had given a vow, taken an oath, with some metaphysical guru type gal, that he would never have sex again until he found love.

He said he would find love by next month.

Immediately, I put up a bubble, "Woah, buddy, back off, ain't no special reason we met! I'm with someone!"

Actually, I had to ponder it all because here is someone I've met basically off the street who is so totally opposite from me, that if he only knew, he'd be terrified at how sexual I had been compared to how faithful to his vow/oath he had been.

But, we don't talk about such things, do we?

Rudolph said, "I've not felt so calm in ages.  I was a ball of energy, so full of anger and rage and all I had to do was talk to you, my new found friend."  I laughed a little and told him it was sweet for him to say because normally I didn't calm anyone down.  I normally got them so wound up and so hyper like myself - bouncing off walls, they couldn't stand themselves, let alone me.

How weird he thought I was calming and peaceful.  Not sure if anyone had ever thought that about me. Ever. I wanted to be, though, I really wanted to be.

Also, what I really wanted, was to say, "Man, how the fuck can you stand not having sex?  How can you go without it?"

He must be one huge ball of something? Electric? Or does one go out of practice? Is it like one of my favourite authors alludes to?  "Sex is a talent." Are people born with the talent?  Do you have to work at it?  Does practice make perfect?

I really wanted to say, 'MY GOD, dude, TEN YEARS? YOU AREN'T A PRIEST!' (I've always disagreed priests should be celibate. Silly rule-thing, if you ask me.)

Sex is God-created.  One thing He 'set up' - The bible even indicates the sexual bed is where freedom happens and you can do all you could ever imagine, anything you could ever think of when you give yourself to your partner and they give themselves to you.

They don't tell you that in church.  They seldom tell what the bible says in church.

Sex is like food and water.  How can anyone go without it?

Sex is definitely Goddess-given.  It is magical.  Sex creates healing and perfection in humanity. There is no such thing as 'bad sex.'

Oh, well, here I go again, on my soap box. Slippery slope. Pardon the sexual pun.

I remember a dream I had of the man I love.  He has a sports car and he rented a red one when he visited me.  A red convertible to drive down Route 66.  One of the days he visited I was upset about a newspaper article I had written being totally changed and important parts being left out.  We were sitting in his rented sports car at the County Fairgrounds and he tilted in the leather seat and pulled his wallet out and took a piece of paper from it. He unfolded it and there was the original proof of that very newspaper article I had been speaking about.  The way I had originally written it before they had got ahold of it and fucked it up. My Corrigan.  He had it.  I said, "I think I am in love with you," and put my head on his shoulder.

Later, I woke him up at 5am in the morning to fuck him and I said over and over again, "I think I am in love with you, I think I am in love with you."

Think? Know. Hell, everyone knows I love him.  I do love him.  I am in love with him.  But, it was a nice dream.  A nice scene.  Somewhere they say that dreams are more real than our everyday life. Especially when we dream of someone we love.  That love is perfection in our dreams.

My car broke down today.  It overheated in the upper parking lot of a car parts store.  Convenient, you would say, but it just left men conversing over what was wrong with it, what had gone out and then me wondering who would be the one to fix it.  Who would take care of it.  Would any of them? Would one step up to help? I'm still that princess, (only in my head, I look nothing like a princess!) thinking the knight in white shining armour will arrive one day to fix the car. Fix the house, the properties.  Fix my mother. Fix me.

I just left.  I went for a walk.  I ended up in Jack's neighborhood.  He's one of my exes. I didn't go there for any reason. Truthfully, I forgot he lived near the lake.  Some lady keeps baby lambs near there and I wanted to see them hopping around and watch the sunset over the lake while the men bickered over my car a few blocks away.

Jack's mother saw me and said, "Oh, Jack is so glad you have come by."  I said, "He isn't.  You must know, he doesn't care about me, he'd be happy if anyone came by. It was never about me, Ma'am, not at all."

She needed to know, it had been a few years and she just needed to know. She still had this fantasy in her head that was not true.  Jack didn't care about me one iota.

Jack came out of the house and stood at least ten feet away from me watching the sunset.  Jack, who I had made love to every single day for 13 months, Jack who knew every damn thing there was to know about me, and he couldn't even come close enough to me to watch the sunset together.

I said, "Come over here." I knew he couldn't see the way the sun danced pink sparkles on the lake from where he was standing, I just knew it.

When he came to stand next to me, I reached out to hug him.  It was the first time we had spoke, let alone touched in a very, very long time.  Well, I spoke.  He did not speak.  He did not say one word. I felt his body shudder, he, so much taller, so much thinner than myself, was he shaking with a tear? Did he finally realize? That he had hurt me?  That I had hurt him?  It felt like it was a tear, a held-in cry that had made him tremble.

I did not know anything except that shudder.  That shake.  He would not speak. I did not ask.  One hug and then back to the way it had been.  Nothing.

All those days, all those nights in each others arms, experiencing every sexual pleasure you can imagine, knowing every romance anyone could wish for and now it was down to silence, shudder and a shake.

I could try to interpret it.  But, I just let it go.

One sunset and a hug.  I suppose it was closure?

I did not know.  I did not know anything.