Talking to strangers

Humidity always reminds me of sexual frustration. Especially that hot sticky Summer humidity when it’s too hot and sticky to think of anything else but sex, but also too oppressive to do anything about it if even if you had the opportunity. Something about the fitful, sweaty, tossing and turning. Or maybe just the stickiness and frustration. 
Which is probably exactly the sort of thing I should avoid mentioning to people I don’t know, but…shrug. I think of things, and then I say them. It’s because I didn’t learn to talk until last year. Not literally, of course. 
–Me on OKCupid to someone I do not know

For the last few days I’ve been exchanging messages with a man in Eugene. We’ve been talking about the usual things one discusses with a near stranger: books, travel, erotic hair pulling, the word cunt, noodles as a commitment and recreational ass biting. 

Sometimes I really wonder if I am fit for civilized company. 

Other times I wonder why people aren’t lining up to find out if I am as sexually focused in real life as I am in writing. 

Most people don’t want to have the kind of discussions that I want to have. It isn’t so much about the sex, but about talking in a way that is absolutely open about anything. Especially things that are important, but really? Everything. 

It is too difficult for most people. Too emotionally risky perhaps. One man, who I liked quite a lot, opened up initially and then suddenly just couldn’t anymore. It was leaving him too vulnerable. He said he was in a place where he just wasn’t ready to have someone’s fingers getting into his soul. 

Is that what I want? To poke my fingers into a man’s soul?

Yeah. Pretty much. 

Poke my fingers into a man’s body and soul, find out what makes him work. Have him working out what makes me tick in the same way. Build something from what we find in each other. 

That’s all. 

Just a bit of black magic, voodoo and soul exchange. 

Why is that so terrifying to people?

Talk, talk

When you spend 3 hours a day talking to someone on the phone, it doesn’t leave a lot of room for writing. That isn’t a complaint, I’ve loved it. Looking forward to talking more, in fact. 

Yes. The phone. I know. It’s very retro. Talking on the phone isn’t really something I do very much, except for this last week or so. 

So what am I going to do?

Keep talking. 

See where it goes. 

Smile. 

I dunno. 

Enjoy it. 

Start writing instead of eating lunch. 

There are ways to make this work, right?

Right. 

An imaginary conversation about curling up in a ball

What? I don’t get it. You feel like curling up in a ball?  Why would you need to curl up in a ball?

It’s a metaphorical ball. Not a real one.

Any kind if ball. Real or imagined. 

Protection? Self defense? Surrender? To sulk?

None of those things sound much like you. 

Not even the sulking?

You spend more time saying you’re going to sulk than actually sulking. 

I don’t really feel like sulking right now. 

What do you feel like?

I already told you. I feel like curling up in a ball and pulling the covers over my head. 

But why?

Because!

Because? 

I don’t know. 

You don’t know?

No. 

No?

Stop it. 

You do know. Or you have some idea. 

I’m tired. 

Tired? So take a nap. Go to bed early. 

Mentally. Emotionally. If I curl up in a ball, maybe it would be like an emotional nap. 

Do you need a hug?

Definitely. The biggest one ever. 

How come?

Because. 

Don’t make me use physical force…

Because I feel really awful about myself, and I know I shouldn’t and I know there isn anything wrong with me and a lot of things are very right about me and I feel awful about myself anyway and I feel guilty and stupid about feeling this useless and stupid anyway and I am tired of feeling all the time. 

Take a breath. What is going on?

I keep ending up with bruises real bruises and just bruised feelings and i’m tired of physical damage lasting longer than the relationship. 

Huh?

I’m sorry. 

Why are you apologizing to me? You haven’t done anything to me. I just can’t figure out what you’re saying?

I’m being a baby. 

You’re having a shitty day. It’s OK. 

No it isn’t. 

No? You don’t get to have bad days?

No. Yes. I mean, I should be able to handle it better. 

Should you?

Yes. 

Why?

Because. 

You don’t even really know, do you?

Because I am not four. I should be a grownup. 

Don’t grownups have shitty days?

Of course, but they don’ whine and carry on about it like I do. 

You do have a certain flair. 

You’re mean. I’m having a bad day. You should be nice. 

Crybaby. 

Sniff. 

Please don’t really start crying. 

I won’t. I can’t cry when you aren’t being nice to me. 

What? 

Well, if you were really being mean to me, I’d cry. But you’re only being mean to me because you know it makes me cry when people are nice to me. 

You could tell?

Yes, because you’re never mean to me really. 

I could start any time I want to. 

You don’t want to though. 

No, I really don’t. I want you to be happy. 

Because you’re awesome. 

No, because you are. 

I told you not to be nice to me!

Noooo oh god, don’t cry. 

Stop being nice to me!

Oh, go curl up in a ball somewhere you dork. 

Thank you. 

Weirdo. 

Don’t over do it.