51 Marbles
THE EDGE, there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over.
Hunter S. Thompson
My last full day in New Orleans. When I wake up, I want the day to last forever. Then, at a turn of a dime, I want it to end. I want to be home.
I’ve always dated “nice guys.” And then there’s dude, who I can’t even imagine introducing to my kids. It’s not that he’s the big bad wolf, it’s just that he’s more comfortable with “the edge” than I am. But I’m doing research and how am I going to write anything interesting if the only flavor I’ve ever known is vanilla?
There’s an expression that says, “If you’re not living on the edge, you’re taking up too much space.” I’ve flirted with the edge here in New Orleans. In the name of research, I’ve had many firsts. So it shouldn’t have been surprising, after some intimate time together, dude tells me that he has to go pick up his girlfriend from at the airport. Girlfriend? What girlfriend? He backtracks and explains that she’s not exactly a girlfriend, just a girl coming to visit (on his tab), and a girl he has sex with (girlfriend or a hooker?) Regardless, I’m not a man stealer and I ask him to take me back to my hotel.
Sure, at the beginning of the week he told me he had a friend coming to visit him, but things were so casual, it barely registered. Besides, I didn’t know a friend meant someone he was sleeping with.
A friend of dude’s takes me out in an effort to cheer me up, but her “men are slime” routine wears out quickly. I go back to my hotel room. I need to find my roots. I read and have a bath. I say a quiet thank you for the safety and the fun I’ve had. The events of today make going home easier.
Dude calls me before bed. He apologizes for hurting me by not being 100% honest. He cries. I listen. He tells me how I kept telling him that I was unavailable. He tells me how I wouldn’t have experienced all the things that I did if he had told me all about her (he’s right about that). He wants to take me to the airport tomorrow. I agree, albeit reluctantly. I tell him that somehow, my heart bone is always connected to my clit bone, no matter how unavailable I might be.
Tomorrow I go home. Home Sweet Home. I miss my kids and my home that is everything that’s opposite from here.
Oscar Wilde wrote, “To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.” Are drama and living entwined? What would living look like without all the drama?
Hunter S. Thompson
My last full day in New Orleans. When I wake up, I want the day to last forever. Then, at a turn of a dime, I want it to end. I want to be home.
I’ve always dated “nice guys.” And then there’s dude, who I can’t even imagine introducing to my kids. It’s not that he’s the big bad wolf, it’s just that he’s more comfortable with “the edge” than I am. But I’m doing research and how am I going to write anything interesting if the only flavor I’ve ever known is vanilla?
There’s an expression that says, “If you’re not living on the edge, you’re taking up too much space.” I’ve flirted with the edge here in New Orleans. In the name of research, I’ve had many firsts. So it shouldn’t have been surprising, after some intimate time together, dude tells me that he has to go pick up his girlfriend from at the airport. Girlfriend? What girlfriend? He backtracks and explains that she’s not exactly a girlfriend, just a girl coming to visit (on his tab), and a girl he has sex with (girlfriend or a hooker?) Regardless, I’m not a man stealer and I ask him to take me back to my hotel.
Sure, at the beginning of the week he told me he had a friend coming to visit him, but things were so casual, it barely registered. Besides, I didn’t know a friend meant someone he was sleeping with.
A friend of dude’s takes me out in an effort to cheer me up, but her “men are slime” routine wears out quickly. I go back to my hotel room. I need to find my roots. I read and have a bath. I say a quiet thank you for the safety and the fun I’ve had. The events of today make going home easier.
Dude calls me before bed. He apologizes for hurting me by not being 100% honest. He cries. I listen. He tells me how I kept telling him that I was unavailable. He tells me how I wouldn’t have experienced all the things that I did if he had told me all about her (he’s right about that). He wants to take me to the airport tomorrow. I agree, albeit reluctantly. I tell him that somehow, my heart bone is always connected to my clit bone, no matter how unavailable I might be.
Tomorrow I go home. Home Sweet Home. I miss my kids and my home that is everything that’s opposite from here.
Oscar Wilde wrote, “To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.” Are drama and living entwined? What would living look like without all the drama?
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