Sizzle Says

There was a powerful chemistry between us. That much remained ever-present until the bitter end. . . and probably the reason we hung on for too long. The spark was more physical than it was spiritual which I find ironic since he seemed to have issue with the way I look. But I am getting ahead of myself…

Our first date fell on Valentine’s Day which we actively chose to ignore. We had a bonfire on the beach with a small picnic. We danced around the magnetic pull mixing in our life stories and funny asides, sharing laughter as we refilled our cups with wine, heady with anticipation of the first kiss (which was interrupted by a gaggle of teen girls running along the beach yelling out “Happy Valentine’s Day!” and kicking sand onto our blanket). That first kiss led to an epic make out session which led to another date the next evening. That’s when he first brought it up, “Have you always been this size?” he asked as we sat on the couch taking a break from making out. “What do you mean?” I floundered to hold my composure. (Do not cry. Do not cry.) “I just wondered if this is your normal body shape. I’ve never been with someone like you before.” Mustering all the self-confidence I could I responded, “Look, if my body is an issue with you then you might as well just leave now. I might lose weight. I might not. But if it is so important to you that you have to bring it up on a second date, then you are not the guy for me. I will be god damned if I let one more guy make me feel less than because of my size. I am a total catch!” I wore my pride like a shield. I didn’t want to let him see me cracking so I acted indignant. He somehow managed to back pedal enough to convince me to let him stick around. I was only tough on the outside, you see.

He had been living in a co-op with some other hippies and right around the time that we met, he was moving out. He actively decided to camp instead of rent another room somewhere. Camp. In the forest. Illegally. On purpose. This is where I should have ran. Over pad thai one night he invited me out to stay with him. In the forest. With the bugs. Sleeping on the ground. On purpose. We were clearly very different. Those differences would multiply over time.

Weeks into it he confessed that his recreational use of marijuana was not really recreational (re: he was addicted). As he struggled to kick the habit, I tried to support him but all my child-of-an-alcoholic-enabler-codependent bullshit reared its ugly head. We tried to be “just friends” though he’d still spend the night. There was one night in particular I remember us lying in bed together with our respective books- me with my adult child of an alcoholic book, him with his narcotics anonymous book- it was laughable really. Taking sex out of our relationship was supposed to be helping us but it was really the only thing we ever did well together. There was so much fucking processing of emotions I finally said, “Look, how about we just have sex and not talk?” Sometimes I’m really in touch with my masculine side.

He kept breaking plans with me. Not showing up. Skipping out last minute. Classic addict behavior. It got to be too much and I had to walk away. I couldn’t be in a relationship that a) triggered me on my Dad stuff (my Dad always choosing alcohol over us like Ick always chose pot over me) and b) had no sex and too much bloody talking. It was one of the best steps toward self-love I’d ever made.

Of course, months later when he called me up, I faltered. Even after it was clear he was booty calling me. Even after I learned he was basically living in his van (oh yeah, another homeless-on-purpose lover). I kept him around. I met his parents. He met my friends. It seemed to be going somewhere.

I was very, very wrong.

I recall our final conversation. He had decided he didn’t want to “do this” anymore which was so rich really since all he really wanted to do was get high and watch “Return of the King.” But he was the one who left me. On the phone after the initial break up, we were discussing his addiction struggle and he turned the tables on me, spinning it, saying, “You know, I was always concerned that I wouldn’t know what to say if someone said something to me about your body shape.” It just hung there on the line between us. I let a minute pass. I let my silence penetrate the great divide between our hearts. I let my voice rise up, “It is classic that in this moment of truth you would make this about me and my body and not about your addiction.”

The conversation spiraled down from there. It’s not worth recounting. Hell, is it even worth telling the entire story at all here? He was yet another Ick- a guy who hated himself so much he turned it on me. And me? Again in the place of not knowing what I am worth and incapable of having the audacity to ask for what I deserve.

It’s no wonder I think I’m no good at love.

“Because I want good love/I want it so bad /It’s a seed stuck in my throat /It’s a weed around my hope /it makes me choke & I can only breathe outside /or in tall buildings with high ceilings & open doors /Isn’t there someone out there I am here for?” -Saturn’s Light, Deb Talan