One Day, My Freak Shall Come...

May is wondrous, is it not? We get the first real tastes of summer in May where I live. Extended days of sunshine, the flirtation with 20 degree heat, pasty arms and legs sprouting from fleshy winter tubers dressed up in shorts and t-shirts. It's the promise of a new year and a new season.

Of course, the nights are still cool enough to remind us of the previous four months of the new year, which really isn't that new anymore. A reminder that we best be paying attention as the continuum, well, it continues.

I'm enjoying the kick of a fey spring. It's a good time to take stock of the mistakes of the past, and the consequences of more recent lapses in judgement as well. All part of the continuum. Whether it leads to a particularly "self-actualized" self remains to be seen, unless the actualization is accepting that I'm kind of an asshole as well as all the good stuff.

I don't know if things move quickly in my world because I have a lot of time on my hands these days, or I'm just the impatient kind who likes to move things along. What's it been, a week or two since I outed myself as an old-fashioned romantic? Bleating away, swollen with recovering feelings and PMS. Hinting that one day, if I'm steadfast in my convictions, my prince shall come...

You may be chagrined to learn I'm backsliding away from that position; I know I'm irked with myself (and of course amused). I'm bled out and got some of what I thought I wanted, two occurences which bring a fresh and sceptical perspective. So that's what I concluded? Really?

Fickle cow. No sooner do I have a eureka moment of utmost sincerity, do I start experiencing deflation. No sooner do I find a comfortable perch from which to survey life's rich pageant than I start to experience boredom with that particular view. Ack. I may be beating a hasty retreat to a romantic absence soon enough. An emotional beige may be appropriate for a spell. (A "spell" being more than a day, the duration of my last kick at it.)

The nice man I met a couple of weeks ago has turned out to be so nice. So nice it makes me uncomfortable. There's a fine balance between being appreciated and being idealized. Plus he thinks a lot.

I've met overthinkers before, of course. The ex-Date was one in his own right, except he found some liberation from anxiety in the sex act (eventually) before getting paralyzed by the other stuff. If he'd stuck with objectifying me, we would've been dandy.

The flip side of that is the nice guy overthinker. He likes me so much that he worries about pleasing me, worries that he likes me more than I like him, worries that it's not going to be as magical as it should be, etc. So of course it's not. I'm left in the position of having to reassure him.

This is workable in the short, short term. I'm not wholly unkind, and don't mind reassuring someone or playing polite. Much like ignoring a drop of spittle flying out of someone's mouth while they're talking, or feigning deafness at occasional bathroom noises, polite definitely has its uses.

However, as I'm not looking to cast myself as Girlfriend or even An Understanding Let's See Where It Goes Candidate, it's insincere to continue. Eventually, it'll get farcical. Embarrassed for the two of us, I'll blurt out something along the lines of "Dude, quit spitting!/Man, you really need to cut out the cabbage..."

It's been an interesting exercise, mind you, to rise to the challenge (one of us has to, correct?). I'm proud of my creativity, and gotten fine results under the circumstances. One small cheer, please, for a can-do attitude.

Still, to me there is no more glorious, prosaic truth than a rigid cock. It may be fleeting in the grand scheme of things, it may be attached to 180lbs of moral relativism and inarticulate confusion and outright lies, yet it is something to be sure of and that my friends, is good enough for me at this point. I still worship at the altar of Priapus. I'll take that hard truth over a discussion of feelings, which is really a discussion about doubt. I don't have the appetite or patience for those conversations without sexual certitude.

I recognize the irony, if not outright hypocrisy of my stance. I was guilty of being the overthinker with my ex-lover, which did eventually lead us to a solid and interesting friendship devoid of physicality. Fair enough. Other circumstances were at play, but there was still a respectable amount of sexual chemistry between us and some lovely, dirty sex even as the end drew near. Not many people would call it quits when we did, preferring to exhaust it completely. I'm lucky to have him in my life, if only to teach me that lesson in timing.

Back to nice guy. Conventional wisdom may dictate I be patient and understanding, but I don't think so. Not me, not now. No, this one calls for retreating in a sensitive and tactful manner, but in a way that leaves no doubt about which direction I'm headed. Back away from the nice man. Back away while you still think he's nice.

Anyway, if there's anything to be learned it's that I don't know jack-shit about what I want or what my type is. I wrote once about the perfect situation being a man for each room of my house to fulfil separate needs. Now I see my ideal emerging as a Frankenstein creation: a dash of the nice man's sweetness mixed in with Guyfriend's intellect and sexual prowess, poured into the ex-Date's hot bod. Something along those lines. We're all looking for a workable composite.

Hence, let me set aside any further comparisons of myself to pastries, or any stolid analysis of my romantic desires or types. These thoughtful conclusions will strike me as false almost immediately. Better to keep it amorphous.

For now, it's reasonable to conclude I'm a sweet old-fashioned girl who daydreams of fucking every nice pair of shoulders she sees. One day my freak will come, and hopefully not in my eyes. Surely not an unreasonable hope.

Schizophrenically yours,
Gretchie