A Really Unfortunate Foursome Starring Peter Gallagher

I don't know if it was the scotch or that my brain was awake with all the blogging, but I had a serious warning sign of a dream last night.

I know for a fact it came between 7 a.m. and 11 a.m. because I woke at seven and watched about three minutes of the sun rising just behind the skyline. I wondered what name Hepburn would have given the purplish light - "amaranthine" or "heliotrope" or something that feels better in your mouth than just "purple".

I turned over in bed, fell back to sleep. And dreamed...ugh, I hate even typing it...this weird sexual sequence in which I got fucked (and I don't use the word lightly. Fucked. Like the true sleazy meaning of the word) by James (my ex-lover from post #1), my ex-ex (who had sexual problems in real life, so his cameo in this scene was awkward at best), and Peter Gallagher (????!!!). We all have sexual dreams, fine. They can be fun, they can be intense, they can be awkward, whatever. But this sequence stuck in my gut all day, because in this dream I was whoring myself out physically AND emotionally. And the emotional whoring didn't feel too off-base. It felt a little too...familiar, I guess. A little too plausible. 

It's something that runs deeper than just James. But James drags it to the surface. I think many women have a James. 

There are two James' that exist to me.

James the Tender. The man who, on our second night together (and first sober one), waited outside his apartment for me to make sure I found the place. The one who then took me upstairs, hung my coat, kissed me well. Dropped to his knees and undid my jeans. Who paid attention. Afterward he made us drinks in the nude, strutting about like a man perfectly free. Who described a song to me as "a part of who I am". Who joked, held me, smelled good, and when he had to leave for work in the morning, left me a pot of coffee, breakfast and a towel to shower with. James the One Who Cares.

James the Consummate Game-Player. The game-player who is so skilled at BEING a game-player, he has avoided developing a reputation as one. The man who calls on me when it's convenient. Who is SO good at paying JUST enough attention to me to keep me on the hook, but never enough to promise anything. Who has fine-tuned his wit to match my tastes, and throws a laser of focus on me whenever he senses that mine is wandering. Who flirts shamelessly with others. Who speaks in non-committal phrases.

It's tricky to reconcile my head and my heart on this matter, when I can't quite settle on WHO the matter is...

But back to emotional whoring...

I got a text from him a few nights ago. Nothing too important. Just a response to a professional email I had sent him earlier. I was with a friend, and seeing the big J-A-M-E-S flash across my phone, I excused myself to the bathroom for the "world's longest pee". Really, I just sat on the toilet and worked EVER so hard at articulating the perfect response. Detached, but witty. Promising, but not too promising. A little feminine, a little irreverent. You would have thought I was trying to write a goddamn blog post!

It's little details like that. I didn't bang him in the basement, true. Bully for me. I'm not giving myself away in ACTION. But in thought? In feeling? I've been giving all of that to a man who, I'm almost absolutely sure, just wants to take it, use it, and run.

I SHOULD be cutting off all ties from James. It honestly makes me sick, to think that I continue to toss the beautiful energy of affection - a wonderful, precious part of who we are - at NOTHING. But haven't we all been there? Addicted to someone that you know is unhealthy, but for the life of you, you just can't find the tool strong enough to sever all ties? Where is this tool?? Is it in me? If it is, it must be in my toes - that's the only place I haven't looked.

Is it Distance? That hasn't been helping. He's been gone for weeks. Time, maybe?

Likely. And time is my least favorite tool. Time as a healer is undetermined and passive, like a little IV tube stuck in your heart that drains the problem away one frustratingly tiny drop at a time. Leaving things to time gives you no control....and that's so very Un-Hepburn.

But then again, how much control do we really have in these things?

Similarly to how I think that if you don't vote, you can't complain: if you LET your day be controlled by complicated men, you can't bitch. You simply lose the right to whine if you spend all day staring at your phone, waiting for him to text. You aren't allowed to moan about it if you text him a bazillion times a day. And you definitely lose the right to bitch if you let him fuck you in a basement, knowing full well that's ALL he intends. This should be beneath us.

But if you happen to see someone on the street who reminds you of him, well...that can't be helped.

That is what I gleaned from Kate today. I realized that her quote about love ("It's about what you give - which is everything") does NOT apply to everyone you sleep with. It applies to the proven and the worthy, and not just lovers. It applies to family, to friends. The people who, when you do give everything to them, will give back to you in the form of companionship, trust, and longevity. Yes, give everything! I encourage you to give, and give, and give! Sending love out into the world can never be a bad thing! And what a glorious feeling! But only give everything when the love is deep, and true, and real.

When it comes to James: I know the circumstances I am describing are not uncommon. I know because the minute I found myself in them they summoned memories of a million books, plays, songs...it's a shared experience, I think. And that, right now, can give me enormous comfort.

Except for the fact maybe that he's a close-to-middle-age, half-deaf, balding guy with a thick paunch. I'm prettier. I win. :)

With a smile,

Moise

moise.whittaker@yahoo.com