The last time I had sex was the 21st of July. It was with the Spaniard. I was drunk and took a cab to his place. I remember drinks, smoking, music, talking, him listening, talking, me trying my hardest to swallow his cock, us in his bed, he trying to go down on me, me pulling him up, begging for his cock.
I saw the Butcher last week. We drank whiskey and I smoked at least a half a pack of cigarettes -- after I'd quit so honorably and so well prior to the trip to the US. We drank wine and ate some and talked. At some point he was talking and my eyes started to lose themselves. His face was resonating louder than the rest of the scene. His face zoomed out at me like a 3-D movie. I went over to his couch and started kissing him. He was too drunk to fuck me and I was too drunk to want to suck him for a long time. He left me in his bed, thinking I'd sleep. I couldn't. I got up and he walked me to a cab.
I am in a strange place now. No sex for almost two months. Cloistered again up in the tower of my apartment. Growing weary of Paris. Growing more fearful and blaise about life. I'm in some between wasteland. Killing time. Seeing the sights I haven't seen yet in Paris. Trying not to spend much money. Feeling fat from sedentary living and my trip to the States. Too shy to make eyes with a cute guy in line at the grocery store - who clearly made moves on me.
And, the Spaniard invites me over tonight. Part of me wants some semblance of romance. Scratch that. Some semblance of respect. The TV Producer has sent an email inquiring about me, ending his note with xxx in bisous. There is no satisfaction there. I have not replied. But the Spaniard has always seemed gracious, friendly, respectful. Example: he tried to go down on me. That counts for something.
See, I have lost mojo again. It's September, the Monday of all months. The wistfulness of summer, the warning of cold, slow days. I feel October around the corner more than I did last year, I think. I'm floating. I'm lost. I'm between before and next. I want someone to hold me. I want the Spaniard to open me up, peel me like an expert culinary artist. I want his hands to feel my obscenely soft skin. I want him to guide my mouth to his hard cock and pet my fine hair in his fingers. I want to be on my hands and knees when he enters first. Or, do I want him pushing my legs open and apart, watching my face as he enters? I am a virgin again.
Tall Tom has called for the past couple of days. And I remember when he scolded me for not moving while he fucked me. A person is not a fish. And every tiny movement of my muscles - face, mouth, legs, cunt - they all move in adoration and relief and hallelujah. He just couldn't see them through his frenzy.
I do not want to be a sad sack tonight. I do not want to cry for mercy. I do not want my eyes to moisten over thinking of meaning that isn't there. I just want to be less of a fuck and more of a freedom.
Showing posts with label butcher. Show all posts
Showing posts with label butcher. Show all posts
Monday, September 14, 2009
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Vacationing
Yes, friends, well it is over. I emailed my last paper, memo, and documents for the final project. And a day early, thank you. This does not speak to the caliber of work because it sucked and it was sent intentionally as crap. Be done! Move on! Senioritis!
And now, there's a sort of confusion. Mr FD put it so nicely as "postpartum" and I'd have to agree. In a way it was giving birth. So, my final project comrades and I had lovely flutes of champagne and talked about how odd we feel now that it's done. What do we do? One has a job already so she's set. The other has called in reinforcements and her NYC pally will come to town. The other has a partner and they will make flight plans to return to South America. And me?
Well, I have been invited to go south to Toulouse to hang out with pdh and his lovely lady M. I thought about saying no so I could just simply veg out in Paris, wander, readjust, etc. But it's better I go. See them. Get out. Move my brain in other places. Staying here and I might have felt trapped in the 2-year rut of sitting at my antique table with laptop, typing typing something, and not seeing much of summer sun. So, instead I'll go to Toulouse and laugh with them, talk, drink, and who knows what else. Then, they'll so generously throw me in the back of a car and drive me to Barcelona with them. I've always loved car rides, train rides, bus rides, motorcycle rides, bike rides, traveling over the landscape with my eyes, and the rhythm of the road. We'll have a whirlwind together as they wind down their trip and I start mine. Short visit in Barcelona and I'm off to Switzerland again. This time, for a 10-12 day homestay with Mr FD.
I realize I'm overdue in posting an overview of actions and thoughts from April's homestay, but I'm not sure yet how to share those. May was a different story. I think it was, from the outset, very different than what we would have imagined. Mr FD was sick, I was stressed out, and the weekend was different contextually than what I had envisioned (whenever I envision ... and don't let my mind race too far off). I think we had some really deep progression. As cheesy as it sounds, Mr FD decided that I would/could/should be his submissive and we talked at length about what that would/could/should mean. The end of the weekend went a bit off into a strange place and we're still talking about what happened, acknowledging it, figuring it out, and man, I can't wait to just move beyond it now. But, I do know that we have some more to discuss.
It must really suck being a dominant. I mean, as a submissive, basically, my biggest job is to obey, serve, and try my hardest to be the best sub I can be. (Which, evidenced by my rate of incurring punishments says something. I am trying, trust me. But there's a LOT to learn and, remember, I come from a testy, fuck-you, punk rock, skater girl background. I have a will that wishes to be tamed, but nonetheless it bucks a bit.) But dominants, well, they've got to remain steady and reliable, trust-worthy, capable, sometimes what our dads weren't or sometimes what our dads were, sometimes what our lovers were or weren't, in control, monitoring, keeping it together, etc. Often there's not much room to be human or real or fallible in these scenarios. After all, I'm not sure what extreme risk the dom sees in trusting the sub. "Please don't be totally crazy or sue me after I beat the shit out of you." Whereas, subs - if they aren't totally crazy - are thinking about the aura of trust into which they are placing their vulnerable bodies and minds. Huge responsibility for the dom. Anyway. Mr FD and I are building over time and interested in seeing what happens and that's good enough for what I want right now. Funny though, since February, since deciding to meet him, I've been saying the same thing to myself: I am ready to be his full-time and live with him - but let's see how this homestay goes just in case. I have, since February, asked the stars for a sign and all I get is monthly decisions to make another homestay. I think they're now laughing at me - and some must be screaming and rolling their eyes. "What more do you want, Lola?!?!?! THIS IS THE SIGN!" I know. I know. But rationality isn't a foe.
And so, vacationing and home.
I'd like to get crazy fucking drunk on wine with pdh and M and see where things go in the middle of the sky. Albert Camus visited it in the 1950s and remarked that “In Cordes, everything is beautiful, even regret”. We shall see.
And then, Barcelona. I haven't seen this fabulous place since sometime in 1998, when one could climb to the top of the cathedral and look out. I wonder if I still can. I didn't fall in love with BCN then, but so many people have loved her since that I wonder what magic has come. I'd prefer to stop along the way than rest inside the city. But, I'm lucky to be driven along the road so we'll see where we go.
And then, BCN to GVA, train to Mr FD. We had an hour chat today, which was nice as my mind was reeling with packing, doing, running errands, paying landlord, this person wants to see me, this person, and he told me stories that distracted my brain race. But at the same time, I felt a bit ... strange. I haven't been one to co-habit with another person for a long damn time. Even with James, my longest relationship, we spent almost 2 years just spending weekends together. I have to admit I'm terrified by the idea of 10-12 days with one person. Granted, we both have work to do and I have territory to explore in the country so it won't be like every second spent together. But it could be. And I'm not afraid of that. Strangely. Instead, I'm afraid of finding out that we couldn't spend every second together. And my seconds are imagined with silence - me in hood and serving with no talking, with OCD - me as céline cleaning and no speaking, with screams - in pain, with quiet - us both on laptops working on whatever, in torture - me tied up and silenced for hours on the floor. Whatever. I'm so hoping it will work out because I can't fathom it not.
One strange thing I thought about today though. As Mr FD told me about a fling with a story. Adjusting to poly is interesting. I haven't really practiced it despite my years of believing in it. I have bubbling feelings of fear, desire, want, admiration, justification, attraction, love as he tells me about this. I'm also jealous. I had a drink - finally - with the Butcher since our last year love affair. It ended up with a lot of whiskey and spanking and fucking. I loved being with him, but I also kept seeing Mr FD. I kept feeling him. I kept thinking of him. I'm just not sure what kind of a poly I am. Or how to do it without feeling weird. I want sex and love and fun with other people, but I'm not sure how to balance all the feelings. So I'm jealous that Mr FD already has his poly understanding - although I'm sure he'll help me figure out mine. And from all this, as our Skype call went on, as he told me about his fling and as we talked briefly about mine.. I kind of started to freak out. This is the first time that I feel I'm involved with someone who out-kinks me. Really. Someone who knows more about bdsm, has more experience with poly. This hasn't happened since... well, almost never, at least at this depth. And that's a total throttle. Not that I don't have something to share or teach, not a self-diss. But to be with someone who might be more kinky and crazy than me? I think this might, sadly, bring out the defenses and the punk rock fuck you. Or, I might be able to bring the earthy, yes, yes, guru listening and learning in me. I just don't know. I've never been here before. And part of me hates the idea and part of me is oh so grateful.
Yes, vacationing. It will take on a lovely form. And I'm ready for it.
And now, there's a sort of confusion. Mr FD put it so nicely as "postpartum" and I'd have to agree. In a way it was giving birth. So, my final project comrades and I had lovely flutes of champagne and talked about how odd we feel now that it's done. What do we do? One has a job already so she's set. The other has called in reinforcements and her NYC pally will come to town. The other has a partner and they will make flight plans to return to South America. And me?
Well, I have been invited to go south to Toulouse to hang out with pdh and his lovely lady M. I thought about saying no so I could just simply veg out in Paris, wander, readjust, etc. But it's better I go. See them. Get out. Move my brain in other places. Staying here and I might have felt trapped in the 2-year rut of sitting at my antique table with laptop, typing typing something, and not seeing much of summer sun. So, instead I'll go to Toulouse and laugh with them, talk, drink, and who knows what else. Then, they'll so generously throw me in the back of a car and drive me to Barcelona with them. I've always loved car rides, train rides, bus rides, motorcycle rides, bike rides, traveling over the landscape with my eyes, and the rhythm of the road. We'll have a whirlwind together as they wind down their trip and I start mine. Short visit in Barcelona and I'm off to Switzerland again. This time, for a 10-12 day homestay with Mr FD.
I realize I'm overdue in posting an overview of actions and thoughts from April's homestay, but I'm not sure yet how to share those. May was a different story. I think it was, from the outset, very different than what we would have imagined. Mr FD was sick, I was stressed out, and the weekend was different contextually than what I had envisioned (whenever I envision ... and don't let my mind race too far off). I think we had some really deep progression. As cheesy as it sounds, Mr FD decided that I would/could/should be his submissive and we talked at length about what that would/could/should mean. The end of the weekend went a bit off into a strange place and we're still talking about what happened, acknowledging it, figuring it out, and man, I can't wait to just move beyond it now. But, I do know that we have some more to discuss.
It must really suck being a dominant. I mean, as a submissive, basically, my biggest job is to obey, serve, and try my hardest to be the best sub I can be. (Which, evidenced by my rate of incurring punishments says something. I am trying, trust me. But there's a LOT to learn and, remember, I come from a testy, fuck-you, punk rock, skater girl background. I have a will that wishes to be tamed, but nonetheless it bucks a bit.) But dominants, well, they've got to remain steady and reliable, trust-worthy, capable, sometimes what our dads weren't or sometimes what our dads were, sometimes what our lovers were or weren't, in control, monitoring, keeping it together, etc. Often there's not much room to be human or real or fallible in these scenarios. After all, I'm not sure what extreme risk the dom sees in trusting the sub. "Please don't be totally crazy or sue me after I beat the shit out of you." Whereas, subs - if they aren't totally crazy - are thinking about the aura of trust into which they are placing their vulnerable bodies and minds. Huge responsibility for the dom. Anyway. Mr FD and I are building over time and interested in seeing what happens and that's good enough for what I want right now. Funny though, since February, since deciding to meet him, I've been saying the same thing to myself: I am ready to be his full-time and live with him - but let's see how this homestay goes just in case. I have, since February, asked the stars for a sign and all I get is monthly decisions to make another homestay. I think they're now laughing at me - and some must be screaming and rolling their eyes. "What more do you want, Lola?!?!?! THIS IS THE SIGN!" I know. I know. But rationality isn't a foe.
And so, vacationing and home.
I'd like to get crazy fucking drunk on wine with pdh and M and see where things go in the middle of the sky. Albert Camus visited it in the 1950s and remarked that “In Cordes, everything is beautiful, even regret”. We shall see.
And then, Barcelona. I haven't seen this fabulous place since sometime in 1998, when one could climb to the top of the cathedral and look out. I wonder if I still can. I didn't fall in love with BCN then, but so many people have loved her since that I wonder what magic has come. I'd prefer to stop along the way than rest inside the city. But, I'm lucky to be driven along the road so we'll see where we go.
And then, BCN to GVA, train to Mr FD. We had an hour chat today, which was nice as my mind was reeling with packing, doing, running errands, paying landlord, this person wants to see me, this person, and he told me stories that distracted my brain race. But at the same time, I felt a bit ... strange. I haven't been one to co-habit with another person for a long damn time. Even with James, my longest relationship, we spent almost 2 years just spending weekends together. I have to admit I'm terrified by the idea of 10-12 days with one person. Granted, we both have work to do and I have territory to explore in the country so it won't be like every second spent together. But it could be. And I'm not afraid of that. Strangely. Instead, I'm afraid of finding out that we couldn't spend every second together. And my seconds are imagined with silence - me in hood and serving with no talking, with OCD - me as céline cleaning and no speaking, with screams - in pain, with quiet - us both on laptops working on whatever, in torture - me tied up and silenced for hours on the floor. Whatever. I'm so hoping it will work out because I can't fathom it not.
One strange thing I thought about today though. As Mr FD told me about a fling with a story. Adjusting to poly is interesting. I haven't really practiced it despite my years of believing in it. I have bubbling feelings of fear, desire, want, admiration, justification, attraction, love as he tells me about this. I'm also jealous. I had a drink - finally - with the Butcher since our last year love affair. It ended up with a lot of whiskey and spanking and fucking. I loved being with him, but I also kept seeing Mr FD. I kept feeling him. I kept thinking of him. I'm just not sure what kind of a poly I am. Or how to do it without feeling weird. I want sex and love and fun with other people, but I'm not sure how to balance all the feelings. So I'm jealous that Mr FD already has his poly understanding - although I'm sure he'll help me figure out mine. And from all this, as our Skype call went on, as he told me about his fling and as we talked briefly about mine.. I kind of started to freak out. This is the first time that I feel I'm involved with someone who out-kinks me. Really. Someone who knows more about bdsm, has more experience with poly. This hasn't happened since... well, almost never, at least at this depth. And that's a total throttle. Not that I don't have something to share or teach, not a self-diss. But to be with someone who might be more kinky and crazy than me? I think this might, sadly, bring out the defenses and the punk rock fuck you. Or, I might be able to bring the earthy, yes, yes, guru listening and learning in me. I just don't know. I've never been here before. And part of me hates the idea and part of me is oh so grateful.
Yes, vacationing. It will take on a lovely form. And I'm ready for it.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Lola is... My Morning Jacket
Reflecting at midnight on Friday.
I got back to Paris on 9/11. The last few days of Geneva were rain showers, sunny glory, and then drizzling on my way out of town. Very parallel to how I was feeling in those final days.
I got back from Cinque Terre, which was a wonderful trip, albeit not a pilgrimage, but a bonding experience with my good friend The Russian, and bonding with myself. I have yet to tell her that on the final day, after she left, I went out past the shoreline and into the deeper water, and as I saw her do earlier, floated on my back facing the tall hills. Serenity in salt water, relaxation in light waves, security in the steady rocks below my feet, stability in being able to see to the bottom, and a free soul in looking up at the dusty green hills that felt so much more mighty than me, with so much presence. I am humbled by things of greatness, be it size of the landscape, beauty of a person, the profundity within the air. I tried to force myself to remember the moment. And then I had a Corona while watching the sunset on my blanket with rocks jabbing into my back.
If you want the details of the conversation between me and The Economist Beekeeper Sex God, you should click the link to the right called Tumblr. I've been quick-posting there a lot lately. It's addicting like the Status of Facebook.
Maybe it had something to do with his beauty and my insecurity that made me wonder why the hell he was spending time with me. I have no idea what he got out of our liaisons, except the obvious: sex. But he could have had it with the chick he told me about who, during their hot date at her place, ran to change and came out in a full-body Catwoman suit. He could have had it with his Brazilian chick, and he did - according to the time frame he told me, which was the night I got back into town from Cinque Terre. Maybe he liked slumming (granted, I think better of myself than that, but...). There just seemed to be no justification and he never really communicated anything. Sure, I knew all about his ex-girlfriend and how she got crazy and belittled him while he was a stay-at-home dad/journalist to their newborn. About how another ex-girlfriend came to visit him in Spain while he was on vacation for 3 weeks and she had new tits. But then - and shame, shame on me - there was the doctor's bill (sitting on top of the recycled newspapers directly next to the trash so, no, I was not digging through the trash, thank you). He was billed for 2 weeks starting the Sunday after he got back into town from Spain, ie the day after we hooked up. But I saw him those 2 weeks. And I hadn't noticed any moles removed or new rhinoplasty. Maybe it was psychotherapy. But who sees patients on a Sunday?
Hence, my doubts. And my curiosities. And I never felt at ease. And this made it all the more pleasurable to date him. The unknown, the mystery, the slight degradation I felt. The grass being greener and not being let in on the secret of the fertilizer. He charmed me with always calling me "guapa" and ending notes with "besos" of different proportions (grande, fuerte). If I could sum him up, I'd say he was probably a true Playboy like we don't see much anymore. Living a minimalist lifestyle (5 suits, 5 pairs of work shoes and a shoehorn the length of his calf, no art hung on the walls, no clutter), always with a bottle of something (Red Label, Ballantine's, wine), dashing in a sweater and white pants, a bathroom with the bare essentials but of good quality, a fridge with nothing but applesauce and pesto and juice, a good drug now and then, taking the train to work, swimming in the lake during lunch hour, and romancing a handful of girls. A veritable James Bond, with that special, forgivable shrug when caught between two lovers.
And his SMS yesterday, "...que tal paris.. beso..."
Yes, he was a character for me.
For the end of the Bike Man, well, I didn't call him after Cinque Terre. Our last rendezvous was strange, as he paced maniacally in his kitchen telling me about the former Swiss light weight champion wielding a bike frame in defense of Bike Man with a chainsaw, defending himself from a love triangle mix-up. He looked out the window the whole time like he couldn't look at me, who was amused just watching him. And then, when I told him I had to go in a half-hour, he spanked me with a newly bought crop and jacked off over me and then came. Leaving me high and dry and racing home on my bike. His fetish just became too routine and unfulfilling.
So, on the drizzly morning I had to leave Geneva, I biked over to his shop, forgetting he didn't open up until 13h, left the book I borrowed (after reading about the child-murdering Gilles des Rais, I decided to pick up a hefty book about some woman solving the Jack the Ripper case - barely got through 10 pages), with a note wondering if he'd buy back my wonderful bike if the future flatmate didn't want it. I haven't heard from him about this at all. Not surprising.
And, now, I'm back in Paris and I have the Butcher emailing me and SMSing me about 4 times a day - even before I left Geneva. I sent an email asking him to be patient upon my return, that I'd need time to settle back in, unpack, shop, readjust, and just get back into things. And yet, still, I get detailed reports about how he's living. He's a sweet guy and he and I are closer than The Economist and I got to be so we have a different conversation between us. But, like every crazy person, I prefer to be left in mystery and wondering and hoping for attention than to be on a pedestal, awaited for like the Queen sailing into town. He leaves no room for mystery or intrigue.
Example:
Me, in Cinque Terre, day after arriving there, I sent an SMS to The Economist: "pienso en vos" (thinking of you / think of you)
He SMS back: ...viento caliente...lo mismo. (hot wind, the same)
I felt compelled for some reason to send the same to The Butcher: "thinking of you"
and I got back "Hi! :-) i bet you're having great time. I've been working on antic photos with my parents. Great time, great stories! Back to paris tomorrow. Gros bisous"
And I know that this just explains the two distinct relationships I had developed with them, but they are also very distinct. And, I preferred the former reply. I guess it's a bit romantic although I swear against romance. But more than that it's this heated mystery, desire, and simplicity in depth. Or, maybe creativity. I don't know, but I saved both SMS and read them again and wondered what the fuck.
So, now The Butcher is wondering when we see each other as if he has a zillion things going on tomorrow night between 19h and 22h and thus needs to plan when I'll be coming over. I know, it's exactly like me. I like to plan things. But when, on the Tuesday before I left, I went over to the Economist's to head to the bees to transfer honey and he forgot the second helmet for the motorcycle, I was like, no problem, let me know when you get back and we'll hang out. I wasn't pining for an hour on the dot, I had packing to do, and frankly, wasn't all that interested in getting all sticky with transferring honey from one bucket to a bunch of jars - and honestly, I'd guess he knew the same or couldn't foresee there being any work for two people and *left* the other helmet as such.
I guess I want a complicated medium, as most people do. To be desired, but not to be needed. To be appreciated but not required. To be enjoyed but not an addiction. I didn't get enough of that from the Economist and get too much from the Butcher. Sigh. Life is so good. I love complexity and all the varieties of emotion of life. I am lucky to feel them.
Well, Paris is still burning lights. The street is louder than Geneva. There is no noise curfew of 10pm. It smells of urine and freshly-baked bread. I have climbed the 101 stairs to my apartment twice yesterday and three times today. I need supplies for survival. I'm also at home on a Friday night unpacking. Listening to "Strangulation" and "Death is the Easy Way" by My Morning Jacket and moaning Turkish singers and wailing French voices, while trying to avoid the Gotan Project, which is added to all my iTunes playlists and which I will not be able to unassociate from the Economist for a long time.
Oh, and there are new photos up on Flickr relating to the Saturday night with the Economist and his friend. We went to a club exchangiste and had a grand ol' time. I'll write about it soon, I'm sure.
I got back to Paris on 9/11. The last few days of Geneva were rain showers, sunny glory, and then drizzling on my way out of town. Very parallel to how I was feeling in those final days.
I got back from Cinque Terre, which was a wonderful trip, albeit not a pilgrimage, but a bonding experience with my good friend The Russian, and bonding with myself. I have yet to tell her that on the final day, after she left, I went out past the shoreline and into the deeper water, and as I saw her do earlier, floated on my back facing the tall hills. Serenity in salt water, relaxation in light waves, security in the steady rocks below my feet, stability in being able to see to the bottom, and a free soul in looking up at the dusty green hills that felt so much more mighty than me, with so much presence. I am humbled by things of greatness, be it size of the landscape, beauty of a person, the profundity within the air. I tried to force myself to remember the moment. And then I had a Corona while watching the sunset on my blanket with rocks jabbing into my back.
If you want the details of the conversation between me and The Economist Beekeeper Sex God, you should click the link to the right called Tumblr. I've been quick-posting there a lot lately. It's addicting like the Status of Facebook.
Maybe it had something to do with his beauty and my insecurity that made me wonder why the hell he was spending time with me. I have no idea what he got out of our liaisons, except the obvious: sex. But he could have had it with the chick he told me about who, during their hot date at her place, ran to change and came out in a full-body Catwoman suit. He could have had it with his Brazilian chick, and he did - according to the time frame he told me, which was the night I got back into town from Cinque Terre. Maybe he liked slumming (granted, I think better of myself than that, but...). There just seemed to be no justification and he never really communicated anything. Sure, I knew all about his ex-girlfriend and how she got crazy and belittled him while he was a stay-at-home dad/journalist to their newborn. About how another ex-girlfriend came to visit him in Spain while he was on vacation for 3 weeks and she had new tits. But then - and shame, shame on me - there was the doctor's bill (sitting on top of the recycled newspapers directly next to the trash so, no, I was not digging through the trash, thank you). He was billed for 2 weeks starting the Sunday after he got back into town from Spain, ie the day after we hooked up. But I saw him those 2 weeks. And I hadn't noticed any moles removed or new rhinoplasty. Maybe it was psychotherapy. But who sees patients on a Sunday?
Hence, my doubts. And my curiosities. And I never felt at ease. And this made it all the more pleasurable to date him. The unknown, the mystery, the slight degradation I felt. The grass being greener and not being let in on the secret of the fertilizer. He charmed me with always calling me "guapa" and ending notes with "besos" of different proportions (grande, fuerte). If I could sum him up, I'd say he was probably a true Playboy like we don't see much anymore. Living a minimalist lifestyle (5 suits, 5 pairs of work shoes and a shoehorn the length of his calf, no art hung on the walls, no clutter), always with a bottle of something (Red Label, Ballantine's, wine), dashing in a sweater and white pants, a bathroom with the bare essentials but of good quality, a fridge with nothing but applesauce and pesto and juice, a good drug now and then, taking the train to work, swimming in the lake during lunch hour, and romancing a handful of girls. A veritable James Bond, with that special, forgivable shrug when caught between two lovers.
And his SMS yesterday, "...que tal paris.. beso..."
Yes, he was a character for me.
For the end of the Bike Man, well, I didn't call him after Cinque Terre. Our last rendezvous was strange, as he paced maniacally in his kitchen telling me about the former Swiss light weight champion wielding a bike frame in defense of Bike Man with a chainsaw, defending himself from a love triangle mix-up. He looked out the window the whole time like he couldn't look at me, who was amused just watching him. And then, when I told him I had to go in a half-hour, he spanked me with a newly bought crop and jacked off over me and then came. Leaving me high and dry and racing home on my bike. His fetish just became too routine and unfulfilling.
So, on the drizzly morning I had to leave Geneva, I biked over to his shop, forgetting he didn't open up until 13h, left the book I borrowed (after reading about the child-murdering Gilles des Rais, I decided to pick up a hefty book about some woman solving the Jack the Ripper case - barely got through 10 pages), with a note wondering if he'd buy back my wonderful bike if the future flatmate didn't want it. I haven't heard from him about this at all. Not surprising.
And, now, I'm back in Paris and I have the Butcher emailing me and SMSing me about 4 times a day - even before I left Geneva. I sent an email asking him to be patient upon my return, that I'd need time to settle back in, unpack, shop, readjust, and just get back into things. And yet, still, I get detailed reports about how he's living. He's a sweet guy and he and I are closer than The Economist and I got to be so we have a different conversation between us. But, like every crazy person, I prefer to be left in mystery and wondering and hoping for attention than to be on a pedestal, awaited for like the Queen sailing into town. He leaves no room for mystery or intrigue.
Example:
Me, in Cinque Terre, day after arriving there, I sent an SMS to The Economist: "pienso en vos" (thinking of you / think of you)
He SMS back: ...viento caliente...lo mismo. (hot wind, the same)
I felt compelled for some reason to send the same to The Butcher: "thinking of you"
and I got back "Hi! :-) i bet you're having great time. I've been working on antic photos with my parents. Great time, great stories! Back to paris tomorrow. Gros bisous"
And I know that this just explains the two distinct relationships I had developed with them, but they are also very distinct. And, I preferred the former reply. I guess it's a bit romantic although I swear against romance. But more than that it's this heated mystery, desire, and simplicity in depth. Or, maybe creativity. I don't know, but I saved both SMS and read them again and wondered what the fuck.
So, now The Butcher is wondering when we see each other as if he has a zillion things going on tomorrow night between 19h and 22h and thus needs to plan when I'll be coming over. I know, it's exactly like me. I like to plan things. But when, on the Tuesday before I left, I went over to the Economist's to head to the bees to transfer honey and he forgot the second helmet for the motorcycle, I was like, no problem, let me know when you get back and we'll hang out. I wasn't pining for an hour on the dot, I had packing to do, and frankly, wasn't all that interested in getting all sticky with transferring honey from one bucket to a bunch of jars - and honestly, I'd guess he knew the same or couldn't foresee there being any work for two people and *left* the other helmet as such.
I guess I want a complicated medium, as most people do. To be desired, but not to be needed. To be appreciated but not required. To be enjoyed but not an addiction. I didn't get enough of that from the Economist and get too much from the Butcher. Sigh. Life is so good. I love complexity and all the varieties of emotion of life. I am lucky to feel them.
Well, Paris is still burning lights. The street is louder than Geneva. There is no noise curfew of 10pm. It smells of urine and freshly-baked bread. I have climbed the 101 stairs to my apartment twice yesterday and three times today. I need supplies for survival. I'm also at home on a Friday night unpacking. Listening to "Strangulation" and "Death is the Easy Way" by My Morning Jacket and moaning Turkish singers and wailing French voices, while trying to avoid the Gotan Project, which is added to all my iTunes playlists and which I will not be able to unassociate from the Economist for a long time.
Oh, and there are new photos up on Flickr relating to the Saturday night with the Economist and his friend. We went to a club exchangiste and had a grand ol' time. I'll write about it soon, I'm sure.
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