Tag Archives: Cuddling

Mixing Emotions, and Narration

Hooking up with an angry man of color.
It’s a strange experience.

I stared at him for a very long time before I decided to kiss him. I looked into his eyes, that were smiling at me, and wondered how it was possible to have such smiling eyes in front of such an angry interior. I wasn’t sure I wanted to do it, but I knew that I wanted the company, so I did. I kissed him.
We do not understand each other. It’s funny, because we both seem so happy outside of ourselves. I always saw him as goofy, and he probably saw my projected airiness. But underneath all of that, he is very angry, and I am very sad.
I don’t know if sadness and anger can really go together. His anger makes me sad, and my sadness will make him angry, whether it comes in the form of tears or laughter. I do not think angry people understand my need to laugh, hysterically. I think they take it personally, even as they try to make themselves humorous. My laughter has been the wrong laughter for angry people.
“Tell me a story,” I say midway through.
“What?” he’s shocked.
“Tell me a story,” I repeat, balancing on top of him. “From your childhood.”
“You can’t just ask for any random story.” He’s annoyed. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Just tell me one,” I repeat, and kiss him briefly to calm him down. I’ve been so involved in my thoughts that I’ve almost completely disconnected from the situation, and I need to find a different way to connect with him. This is what I need. A story, to understand.

I spent a lovely afternoon tripping with my friend. It took a while to come up, but once there, I didn’t want it to end. I saw my life so much more clearly. I realized that I view my world as a giant story, with all of my interactions as events, and all of the people as characters. I have narration, and English teachers floating in the back of my head to explain the symbolism of things. Everything has a different meaning, and I just need to understand what those meanings are. It’s not that everything happens for a reason, but rather that there’s a lesson to be found in each thing I encounter. If I were an author, I would introduce characters and kill them off as warnings to the reader. We have the celebrities, whose only purposes are to be celebrated. The child stars who teach us the hazards of living solely for the approval of others. Those white people who are parasites and aliens, coming in with superior technologies and fantastic mimicry, sucking the life out of all others around them.
I often get the feeling that the story in which I’m living is not my own, but rather that my whole life is being lived to make some sort of impact in the story of someone else. I’m not my own main character.
I used to want to create a movie whose beginning was the end of another story. Start with two characters in a car that is driving into the sunset. After a point, the audience realizes that this was initially a triumphant drive. At the end of the first story, maybe the characters had packed their bags to set off to the college of their dreams, or maybe they had finally saved enough money to move away from their piece-of-shit town. The story ended on a happy, expectant, hopeful note, and it stopped before things could become sad, or mundane. Does no one ever wonder what happens next? I do.
My friend left for a bit to talk to her boyfriend, and I waited with another friend for her to come back. When she did, the second friend left to make guacamole and the first friend sat down and started talking to me. I was so happy to see her, and the experience swirled, and I realized that she could have talked us through the end of our movie. Music would have swelled, the camera would swivel up into the sun, and that could have been the end of us. But it wasn’t.

“You said that you and your cousin are both of the crows,” he said, “So both of you are trapped and both of you are free. But how are you trapped?” Hadn’t he been listening to me?
“I’m alive,” I told him. I’m alive, and I really don’t think that I should be.
That’s the difference between the real world and stories. In books, it’s understood that not everyone has been written to make it. Not everyone is supposed to survive to the end. In life, there’s the expectation that everyone will survive, and I don’t understand it. I feel like my character’s course should be coming to its end, but I don’t know how to finish my book. My author is hiding, and I do not know how to find hir to talk. All I have are these English teacher directions, making me analyze the colors of my curtains and look at certain people in my character cast as ghosts.

Thomas was playing soccer at the bottom of the hill. She felt an intense need to call out to him, to go down to him. But there was nothing to say. She’d only be a nuisance, interrupting the game. And then the soccer players were stopping, and Thomas was gone.

She watched the friend walk off, and knew that she would be fine. Sad, yes; but fine all the same.  She was protected, and loved, and had her companion. Yes, she would be okay. This was good.

I wonder if it’s better to live off of anger, or to live off of sadness. Anger seems to give you a false energy; it fuels itself, and you by proxy. Sadness begets sadness, but sadness drains you. I’ve never been too angry to move, but I have been paralyzed with sadness. Anger probably makes you more productive. This guy is doing things. He’s organizing trips and creating theater pieces. He’s loud, and known. I am small, quiet, selectively presenting myself to the world. He’ll probably go farther than I do. Still, I don’t want to be angry. I don’t want to hate people. Sadness might make me a ghost, but I think hatred makes it easier for one to become inhuman.

Pulling myself back out of my thoughts. This is over. He will be leaving.
“This was nice,” he says. I wonder what was going through his head all this time.
“Yeah,” I say, although I’m not sure. “We should do it again sometime.”
“Definitely,” he agrees.
I am not actually sure if he will come back, and I am not actually sure if I want him to. I’m attracted to him, but also afraid of him. If only he was not so angry. If only I was not so sad.

If only our lives were written in a novel.

Midnight October Love Letters

I miss you.

I miss having you in my bed, wrapped up in my arms and legs as much as I am wrapped in yours. I miss being able to feel your hands on my opposite shoulders, as they have made their way all around my back. Your arms are long. I remember you demonstrating this two falls ago. And now, even if I wanted to roll away from you, I wouldn’t be able to. I don’t, though.

I’m sorry that I didn’t kiss you. I was scared. I still am. Thank you for not pressing it.

Thank you for staying the next morning. Thank you for sitting by me, in the chair that makes me sneeze, and watching Bob’s Burgers. You’re the first one to do that. You’re the first one I would’ve wanted to do that, and I didn’t even need to ask.

I don’t know what will happen when I go back. I see all these different versions in my head of things I want to happen, some with you, some with you later. But I know that I want you back in my room of lights. I want to be nestled with you, I want to watch Sunny with you. I want to be able to cry in front of you, snot pouring from my nose, and not have to worry about being unattractive. I want to talk and be listened to, to be appreciated for my simple skin and words.

I love you.

I’m not sure how, but I know that I do. I’ve half thought it over the last year, and I know it now. I love you. And it sucks, because I’m not sure what can come of it, or what I want to come of it. But I love you. I’m not in love with you, but I love you. And I worry about you.

I miss being angry at you, being so frustrated that I don’t even understand how we could have ever interacted with each other. Sometimes, you’re insufferable. But I suffer through you, and you suffer through me, and we sit down together, and when we stand back up, we’re friends again. I don’t know how we do that. But we do.

Ton pied es mon pied, and your successes will be treasured and rejoiced by me. Let me into your life as much as you dare. I understand what I’ve done in the past, and I understand your fear. I understand why you wouldn’t trust me. I do not say that you should; I do not ask you to. It’s just something that I know you have to do, eventually. We’re XXXX and Khalilah. That’s what you said, once, and that’s what we still are. We’re XXXX and Khalilah, and I miss you, XXXX. I miss you.

And I love you.

What I Want

I want to sleep with someone.

I don’t mean that I want to have sex. I actually want to sleep with someone. I want to be so comfortable with someone that I can crawl into their bed, or have them slide into mine, and stay there all night and into the morning.

I want to wake up completely entwined with someone, with our legs jumbled together and our arms wrapped around each other, just pulling each other close. So close that our foreheads and noses are touching, and when I inhale, it’s what they are exhaling. They in turn inhale the air I breathe out.

Our lips are so close, either of us would only have to pucker and stretch our mouths out a fraction of a centimeter to be kissing, but we don’t. Not for a while.

I want to lie there, entwined, close, and breathing, feeling safe and comfortable, and then I want to want to kiss them. It wouldn’t be for myself, because physically I’d know that I wouldn’t feel anything, but for them, because physically they would. I want to care about and trust someone so much that the act of kissing them, or doing anything physical with them, feels good purely out of empathy and emotion.

And afterwards, we’ll be able to go home knowing that we’ve shared something beautiful, and we’ll be able to share it again and again without hurting anyone.

That’s what I want. I’m aware that I’ll have to wait for it.