How fickle is mine heart

... or mine libido

The Bike Man was quickly replaced by hormones and desire. I'm totally PMS'd or pregnant, the latter which seems impossible at this time but - as every month - I worry. Really, I should just get my tubes tied and find comfort in knowing that using a condom will not result in any offspring. But, I'm not one to say 'never.'

And then...

Friday, 12:21
...nos vemos el sabado?..

I giggled in happiness. Of course, I knew the Economist was coming back from Spain on Saturday, but was half sure that he wasn't interested or that I wasn't going to show any interest. After all, despite a lazy bougeouis ignorance of email, he could have emailed once over three weeks. But then, I didn't, so whatever.

We want what we can't have.

I showed the Russian friend the SMS and was momentarily excited in our depressing last days of working together. I felt this way - depressed at good-byes - when our first year grad school classes ended. I had been distracted with the Butcher and decided not to see my Canadian friends, with whom I bonded closely, before they left - for good, to other schools for the second year. And such went with the Russian. The last week was a strange dance of her coming closer, more needy, and me, pushing away, believing I had serious work to focus on or she was big enough to do things on her own. She hurt her hand biking to work and I wanted to help and we visited the doctor together and the radiologist and I translated French to English (a minor accomplishment in language learning). But at the same time, I was trying to push her away a bit. It's my historical response to these things.

I'm not sure when I learned it, but after moving so much in life, at some point I realized there was no use in suffering the departures of friends or my departure. Maybe I got this when I got to high school. When we all had to pretend to be cool with emotions. And now it's a biological response. A repulsion to the person once it's established we're not to share the same geological positioning. I tend to find fault then. Tend to find other endeavors. Other occupations and preoccupations. It's an obvious defense mechanism, and I'm not letting go yet.

But then, when she came around to say goodbye, all I could think was to hug her, strongly and closely - instead of the 3-times cheek-kissing of Geneva. It's not sexual of breasts touching, but of placing hearts close. I learned hugging from the hippies in my life. Their overly-long embraces, their strong grasps, their sighs of "can you feel that? our spirits are touching!" Or whatever. But after a while, I got it. There is something funny about our US culture. When we meet people, we send the distance orb out - this is my space, that is yours - shake my hand. The Europeans and South Americans have developed the cheek-kiss. It breaks barriers and makes us human. But it still is a formality, where the hug is a breaking of all barriers. Husky, strong firemen in NYC will do it for bonding, girl friends do it for closeness, families do it for assurance. I miss hugs. And I tried to cling to Russia for a bit and she did that patty-pat-pat on my back, trying to break free. I understand completely.

So, I waited about 7 hours to reply to Economist. I was a silly schoolgirl. Don't reply quickly - too obvious and needy and eager. Don't reply too late - he'll make other plans or be put off. So, in the evening, after dinner (after thinking all day and night about what to say), I SMS'd back, "Pourquoi pas?" Why not?

Of course.

Saturday I kind of mourned the Russian and got up lazily and slowly. There were things I wanted to do and see but without a partner it was different. Got out the door and on the road at 2pm to the cemetery here to pay homage to Borges and Calvin and found so many others of note. Spent a good hour there and then trekked up on bike through the western part of town. (We never went south or west since the Russian couldn't cross into France without a visa.) Climbed a hill along the river and up to another cemetery and along the river and on and on. The Economist SMS'd me "...un whiskey a las 20h?" A whiskey at 8pm? I sent back, sure.

Kept on biking. I had to find myself again.

Came home and made dinner. And just as I was fondling myself for pre-relief, "..a las 20h en la terraza de siempre.. gusto de verte.." (At 8pm in the terraza like always - pleasure to see you.) What's with all the periods? Of course, in the terraza where we first met, like has been our short-lived habit. I was late and nervous. He was early and oh so tanned. From being on his boat in the Med, sailing and drinking and fucking and bathing nude. He was cold and did I want a drink or get one back at his place? What was the rush, I wondered. No, one here first would be good. We went back to his place and I did not perform well at all. I was super PMS girl who had political arguments and griefs about the world, but I asked how his trip was and who he fucked and how fishing was. He fucked a friend of his, and he wasn't sure if he'd forgotten or not noticed, but she got new tits. I don't like new tits, but I loved his description that they looked, while she was reclined on the boat, nervous. Nervous tits. Shaking a bit. Trembling. A nice visual.

There was no coke this time. But he offered me a smoke of hash cigarette (they don't smoke the maryjane here). It was like usual, a missionary fuck (which I had commented earlier bored me - when he asked what I didn't like or liked in men). He twisted my nipples and filled me like Andy could, god praise southern cock and northern cock! Then I passed out. The smoke gets me all the time now.

"I wanted a scooter when I was a kid," he said. "But my mother said it was too dangerous. So I asked for a telescope so I could see the moon. So I could see the American flag there. ... I memorized the terrain of the moon," he told me.

I slept off and on while he would get up and change the music, smoke some more. Leonard Cohen - Suzanne. Opera - wistful. I asked him if it was winter time. He said no. I said, I thought you only listened to opera in the winter? He replied, I was mistaken, and changed it. It is the coming down from vacation, I thought. Not that he wishes to love fake-tit girl. Not that he isn't enjoying my dozing off. I don't care. I'm tired. .... His skin, like Neapolitan ice cream, brown and raspberrry mixed. There is a slight less tan where his swim suit bottom would be. His skin, slightly scratchy from repetitive sun. His skin, warm. Like a cookie. His cock, too big for my mouth. My body - not entirely free.

I had not spent the night before and it's not that I regret it now, but I do wonder what I gained or lost. I slept for shit. With intermittant music, getting up and fucking, thirst, sunshine, elevator, snoring. I got up when the sun was starting to peek in and debated - take the sleeping pill or leave. I decided that since I couldn't find my clothes easily without waking him, I'd pop the pill. Finally, I slept a bit.

You know those weird moments where someone wakes up, goes the bathroom, and you, in desperate need of more sleep and something to drink, get up, run to the kitchen, drink a gallon, jump back into bed to pretend not to have woken at all? I think he did that while I was in the bathroom. I heard the wood floor squeaking and water and then quick run back and he was in the same, albeit slightly awoken, state as when I left him for the bathroom.

This kind of bums me out. I try to establish with all my lovers the freedom to do and do as pleased. Don't want to touch me in the morning? What do I care? Want water and to keep sleeping? Do it.

So, we had morning sex instead of sleeping. And he slept on - or wanted to sleep on - and I dressed and left. The morning at 10am on a Sunday is a delight to see for a short while.

I ate a huge bowl of cereal and drifted to sleep reading about crazy Gilles. The cat drifted in and out and I ignored an SMS from Bike Man.

Photos, writing, lazy masturbation, and a decision that I need sun but couldn't leave the apartment today and need to see the sun tomorrow made me decide to call in sick tomorrow. (Shut up, DU) So, I lazed around, cooked food when I had to eat. Read when I wanted to lay down. Played with photos. Played with myself. And then wanted more cigarettes. So, I ran down to the plaza cafe, where they have a machine. Ha. Of course. Economist in jeans, white shirt, flip-flops, sitting at a table with a brunette and a chiller for champagne or white wine or something. Out of the corner of my eye. I'm not a stalker. I get my smokes and leave, looking for a second as he is up and arranging the table for something.

I get home and go back to work, thinking a bit about him, and get "...placer de pasar esa noche 'missionaire' contigo..." Pleasure to pass this night "missionary" with you. Ha ha and ha. He's a very good playboy, or a very deceptive man or a nice guy. I'm not so sure about these things. I follow my gut through most of my life and my gut tells me that there is something very out-of-place with him. Nothing hangs on the walls. Nothing occupies much space in the bathroom - no bathroom mirror hiding spots. Glasses in the kitchen are different. But I've seen the closet and the depressingly similar work suits. And the strange porn.

It reminds me of the rich old man who tried to seduce me in his "bachelor pad," although that featured photos of his family and more lived-in look.

I do want to believe the scenery isn't changing between visits. That

that everything

but then.. KEXP plays Nick Drake's "Pink Moon" after I had sent him the album, thinking he'd like it considering his wistful smoke to Leonard Cohen. And, considering, I haven't heard that song in forever.

I do want to believe.

Because after his SMS I sent, "Placer de verte - you look good in white tonight." (Pleasure to see you ...) and he replied, "..Ole..."

We want what we cannot have.

While Bike Man hoped to see me before his week-long bike around the lake - he told me he was hungover, too, when I replied that I was too hungover and needed sleep. And he ended the SMS that he missed me, bitch. And I knew he had bought a new riding crop. And I know my tits and body are sensitive - too sensitive to be beaten, and too distracted to see him.

The playboy distracts me.

We want what we cannot have. What seems to be out of reach. What seems good and we want to return. What was good and ends up not being the same.

A lesson to remember when I return to Cinque Terre. I

I am not trying to recreate a feeling. I am not trying to have what I had before. I am trying to see if things mean the same again. I am trying to find myself. My heart. My heat. My place. My space in this world.

He collapsed on top of me after fucking. His cock almost hurts my cervix, it reminds me of Andy. Bracing himself with a bit of his left arm. A cookie burnt red arm. I found myself unable to lay there motionless, and raised my hands to his back to caress it, his arms, his back, his shoulders, the valley of his spine, the sweat spot above his ass, his round ass, his formed ass, his tanned ass, his thighs, his arms, his neck. I behaved like my men have with me and opened an eye to look at him laying beside me. His tanned, bronze face like every 1950's movie star. Fake sleep, real sleep. The intrigue is the insecurity. What makes this man even consider spending time with me? There are so many others. His lips. His nose.

we want what we cannot have - ever.