| Another phone call I need to make is to this woman in New Orleans. I spent two intense years with her there in the middle 90s.
New Orleans is where I should have gone and stayed.
But didnt. Lena's a successful businesswoman and amateur ballerina, a powerhouse, demure Southern sweetness in total control.
Over you.
I captured her in my hands and felt the dust of her fluttering wings on my fingers. I sawed her heart in two but in so doing it was I who bled out.
The worst death imaginable, the one that doesnt kill you, the one that you can't imagine and never feel coming.
Recently, I searched her company website and there she was, looking as coolly serene and everwise, a graceful fortress of feminine vulnerability in total control.
Over you.
There's reasons I chose, there's ego issues, there's stupid, nonsensical, manhood failures. There's the fact that my son was just a baby at the time. She had two little kidz and I couldnt bring myself to raise hers and leave mine behind. They are in college now and he's in high skool. And I didnt really raise him up, anyway.
Damn it!
I can still feel the resentment rising off the prison wall in somebody's fancy Uptown mansion.
We spent every weekend together, mostly in bed, making love five times, ten times, while I picked the lock to her soul in that upstairs bedroom overlooking the pool, the guest house and the tastefully rotting garden.
She told her elderly, Catholic parents that I slept in that guest house and she insisted that we always lie to them about the nature of our relationship.
We were just friends. Her dad saw through me clear to the third rung of hell...he never once failed to graciously enquire about the well-being of my boy.
=You own me.
She'd gasp and shutter in spasms once we were alone, always with her riding tall in the saddle. She'd get so inside of hers, which took such a long long time to develop, a very long time, so long that her facial expression when it finally happened made me laugh out loud sometimes.
It seemed sorta selfish of her in a funny way, all this drawn out serious intensity, the expense of so much comic energy and for what? The female's opposite rejoinder to the traditionally uncaring lunk's premature ejaculation? I guess I had it coming. Haha.
I met another grrl at work back in DFW, a slight vietnamese refugee with the lithe, silky body of a preteen. She was really 26, I swear it, and she had a redneck BF up in Arkansas who started calling me at the office, regularly threatening to come down to Texas and exterminate me in the prime of my perversion just as soon as the judge restored his drivers license.
He showed up one day but I'd already quit and gone to work somewhere else. One of my ex-co-workers called me and relayed the scene. He'd come up and made a row, asking for me. Glory pleaded with him to calm down and leave, that I wasn't there. He ransacked the office for awhile, calling Glory a cunt and threatening to cut off my balls with a butter knife. The police were summoned.
I probably need to give Glory a call, too, now that I think about it. Two completely different yet perfectly satisfying sexual partners simultaneously in my life, hundreds of miles apart.
Lena, Glory.
And here I was perfectly miserable anyway, encrusted in abundant non-stop sexual delirium.
RIOTOUS!
Glory ended up marrying the whackjob BF and they now have one, maybe two kidz together. They live happily ever after in the suburbs with a house, two cars and a dog.
Lena kept wanting more of me. She thot that I was ecstatic as she was with our life. She never noticed that it was me doing all the career changing, all the priority shifting, the endless traveling back and forth, the pushing aside of my own parental obligations.
Flights into and out of New Orleans International slowly tapered off, first to every other week, then every third week, then less than that.
Finally, the excuses.
=I have too much work. I have to take my son to gym lessons. My dick hurtz.
Then, I said g'bye to Uptown New Orleans forever.
I wrote a song about us. It had written itself in a weirdly, emotionally accurate minour chord progression. It sounded pretty good. I thot about sending her a tape but that seemed fucked up.
I mailed her the lyrics, instead...
In the beginning
you came
every morning
you were the sun
rising up
without warning
In the end
I lost you
in a fog
In the end
me frothing
like a dog
but in between
you were alive
beside me
unseen rope
confined me
you were alive
you were alive
beside me!
You crossed the rubicon
astride me!
And in between
I was alive
beside you
your poetry
survives me
I was alive
I was alive
inside you!
I crossed the rubicon
inside you!
She never wrote back. I called her once. She answered and spoke to me in a glum monotone. I didn't ask how she liked the song. I felt like she was acting, but haha! So was I.
Neither of us could ever be free.
Some lawyer who'd chased her around for years had recently presented her with a diamond ring.
I told her all about my relationship with Glory.
=Oh, Pete. Why can't you learn to value yourslef?
=I do. I do. I do. |
