About The Red and Black (Athens, Ga.) 1893-current | View Entire Issue (Feb. 6, 2014)
AMPERSAND | FEB/MAR 20149 Dear Redacted, The art of almost-sex is complicated, but after the other night, I think I’m starting to learn. “Want to come inside and listen to Drake?” Damn. That’s a modern day “come hither” if I’ve ever heard one. So that’s what I do. I come inside, go in your room, put on “Take Care” and lay down awkwardly sprawled across the top of your bed sheets. I’m careful not to touch you as I put my head down but I also make sure to sigh and kick my feet up in just the right way. It’s a while before anything significant happens. We sit there for a moment before I put my arm around you, you bring your head to my chest and I pull you in for a kiss. It’s not the best kiss in the world. It’s a little cold and inactive but it’s definitely not horrible. As things intensify it doesn’t mat ter that much. You kiss my arm, my fore head, my neck; it feels better to be kissed in these odd places. The fact that you would even think to kiss near my elbow to me is more endearing and memorable than if you had tried to shove your tongue down my throat. You ask if I want to stay over. I know you’re seeing someone else. A month earlier you had mentioned a story about him in passing. You told me while we were watching Netflix, out of the blue as if to warn me to not get too close. But hell, it’s been a month and who is this guy anyway? So I say yes. We start to fall asleep, but I keep wak ing up both because it’s really hot in your room and I’m nervous as hell. We wake up, kiss, fall back asleep, repeat for several hours. At some point, I would guess about two or three in the morning things get a little more intense. I start to kiss your neck, your navel and then finally I’m kissing where it seemed you wanted me to go all along. My kissing placement choices feel really unoriginal. I stop. I say, “I don’t want to move things too fast,” and you agree. At the time I felt noble, but only now I realize how stupid I had to have been to feel like a gentlemen for “politely” not eating you out on our first night together. We spend the rest of the night holding each other. I’m still nervous. The next morning is strange. We’re still kind of leaning on one another, but the tone is different. You have a doctor’s appoint ment, you have to go, you won’t look me in the eye. I say bye. The way you speed out of your driveway says it. It’s been a few days, and the whole thing came crashing down after you told me that it was just a mistake that was never go ing to go anywhere and I sent a series of overlong and desperate texts (fitting for a fling that began with Drake). I feel like maybe we should have had sex. Maybe if I had eaten you out, it would make you like me more. Maybe if I had gone all the way, I could have called it a one-night stand and I would feel better about how things ended up. That’s not what happened though. You didn’t reach your hand down my pants, you didn’t give me a blowjob, we didn’t f***. Instead, you kissed my elbow. And I can’t get it off my mind. - Neta Last Year's Love, On New Year’s Eve, I looked for you. I hardly know why. I toasted the year past (thank God that’s over) with some real hopes that I would get this next one right. But there were still unfinished matters to attend to before I could begin anew, and I did something I shouldn’t have: I looked back. With my face painted in bright colors, I sidestepped side walk revelers and made my way down back streets, up Clayton, down Hancock. Another lap around the block, I thought, just to say, “I’m sorry” and “I love you.” The golden mo ment of confession never came, though, and I went home alone. Recalling this night amid a million other things I should be doing, and reflecting on the months past, I feel old and tired. I’m tired of hoping you will get your act together and I’m tired of feeling like I still want you around. I’m tired of training myself to think of other things and to stop searching for your cues. I’m sick of resenting you when you fix longing eyes on me in dimly lit bars, at the same time you’re sliding your hand down someone else’s back. Maybe it’s not you I’m madly in love with, but the alluring “what if,” the perpetual chase, the unfinished business. Maybe it’s the hypothetical that keeps me buzzed, looking for more than what’s actually there. But at the end of the day, “what if” is a currency worth nada, and I can’t keep running in circles. Ira Glass once said the moment of finally “get ting over it” can come like a thief in the night (Episode 42, Act One if you’re keeping track), so I’m ready for it this time. The door’s un locked. I hope you know better than to think this is a love letter or a statement of interest that screams, “COME BACK TO ME!” Instead, it’s a giant "F*** YOU” to whichever part of my brain bathes you in a schmaltzy glow whenever I think of you. It’s an expression of wonder mixed with horror that devotion to someone can feel this bad. It’s a note-to-self to one day learn to seek something different than this half-assed, “what-if” kind of love. Until who knows when.
