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{a romantic's musings on anal sex} heather l. garcia Everybody knows that I’m a big fan of the funny. When I say “the funny” I am, of course, referring to life’s common absurdities that are usually overlooked or misconstrued as distressing to a more well rounded individual. I am speaking of the comically pathetic persona that one embodies when one is knee deep in the trenches of adversity, more often than not, brought on by horribly misinformed, nonsensical choices and the just as absurd actions that one takes as a result of the temporary insanity caused by enamoration retardation, which for your future reference, is a clinical disorder. Enamoration Retardation. But, I digress. I am not a woman of sound mind. I almost, yes almost, relish the crushing, suffocating sensation of writhing, perishing amour. One of the reasons being, my ability to, in the midst of my exaggerated crisis, step away and watch myself behave like a petulant decadent dying lover. Amusing, to say the least. I like to wax poetic on the idiotic sardonic, yet, glamorous appeal of despair and despondency, when the real subject at hand is more along the lines of seemingly schizophrenic babbling to oneself, explosive ass burning diarrhea, and the curious fact that when I pack on the pounds, like sweaty dock workers pack effluvious fish onto ice, my tiny Asian boy boobs are called into action, much in the same way post pubescent boys were forced to Vietnam. The only difference is that my little boobies aren’t innocents. No, gentle reader, they’ve seen a thing or two in their day. I seem to reenact every quirky romantic comedy I’ve ever seen, when I sit in my unnaturally dark living room, that is tomb silent except for the sound of disgruntled office workers on the sidewalk below and emergency sirens adding to the urban cacophony of a dying society. When one, and I do mean ‘I’, is immersed, semi-involuntarily in a failing infatuation, every waking moment is consumed by game planning, a plotting of sorts, to win back the tapering affections of the deified James Dean. So, I sit. In the dark. At high noon, after having literally crawled from my bed to the living room. Eyes smeared with remnants of last nights black liner and crusted together at the ends. Lips swollen from a bad habit I picked up called sleeping on my face. Arms and legs sprawled over my big red couch wearing only ruffle butt undies and mismatched colorful knee socks, watching the smoke from my light brand cigarette ribbon mesmerizingly up to the ceiling of my condemned apartment like a hypnotized serpent that sways and dances for its flute toting yogi. The mood is hopeful. The day not yet tainted by my ability to ax murder my self confidence. I lay there, with a smirk threatening to take up residence, like an unknown squatter, upon my sleep plumped lips. I lay there, thinking about my previous nights exploits, having nothing to do with coitus, but having everything to do with the fact that I can’t make myself stop fluttering my camel length eyelashes adoringly at “him”. Whoever “he” may be. Stupid. Bad Path. But, who the fuck cares. I’m not going to be careful this time. Its balls to the wall from here on out. Too many things have been left unsaid because of the decision that I once made to keep my heart out of my decisions and let my able, if not somewhat jaded, mind take the head seat at the Enron boardroom meetings of my romantic endeavors. I should have known that that sorry son of a bitch would throw me under the bus and complicate business. Robotic emotion, no more. Hidden desire, buh bye. Unspoken affection, no thanks. I’m probably bullshitting myself, but no matter, the smirk that was threatening my mouth with a good time breaks into a grin and then I start to construct conversations out loud. Things I would say if “this happened” or if I could just be comfortable with me. Funny things, I say. Chortling at my test jokes, I begin to choke on my mountain dew, because any person of sound mind wouldn’t drink mountain dew A. when they first wake up, and B. while laying on their backs on a couch, having imaginary conversations, rehearsing and telling offensive jokes to an absent Casanova. I am clearly not of sound mind. I am a romantic lunatic. A crazed lovely lover am I. Keep your children away from me. Don’t let them gaze upon my kiss softened lips or dreamy distant eyes. Don’t let them read my fairy tale pulp fiction about gorgeous romps, desperate embraces, and debilitating heartaches. Take heed, they will become me. Endlessly hopeful. Hopelessly devoted to the idea that archaic love can still be made, unmolested by contemporary mans theory on casual sex and relations. Oh, Love, I am dangerously in love with you and your mischief. A glutton for punishment, I continue to follow you around like a red-haired blood hound, following his chocolate faced little boy. Love, you punk rat cat, you are my king and my prison warded, neatly rolling off of the breath of my debonair listless lover. So, I’ll just lay, resigned to that fact, dramatically sprawled and absurdly underdressed across my dramatically colored sofa, with a dramatic arm draped dramatically across my dramatic brow, rehearsing conversations to later be had with my darling conquest who is threatening to drive my desire quotient over a cliff, to explode, grandly, into flesh melting flames. I like it that way. I love/hate the gorgeous torture of anticipation. Laying on my menstrual blood colored sofa – that is symbolic of the loves I’ve lost, the loves I’ve left, and the lovers yet to come – I wonder if it will ever change. My quest for something reciprocal. I shudder to think that I will continue to pursue men who don’t see in me what my mother does. Not sexually, because that would be deviant and uncomfortable. No, what I meant was my intellect, my humor, my playfulness, my tenderness, my attentiveness, my sensitivity, my boon that is to care too deeply, far too quickly, my ability to overlook what is unimportant and sidestep pretense. My mother sees me. Am I forever doomed to allow men who don’t, onto the untended stoop of my self consciousness? Suffice it to say, I’ve become romantically reclusive. Very suspicious of the intentions of courting men. Perhaps it’s partially a result of the bar that I work in, where the various come-on’s compete in the World championship of Idiocy contest for the most unimaginative things ever to fall from the mouths of plaid short wearing metro sexuals or eyeliner sporting scenesters who wouldn’t know romance if it shaved their soul patches or if I spit in their drinks…….I mean, if ROMANCE spit in their drinks, rather. Just perhaps, it’s the recent affairs I’ve had where I was emotionally available to men who left the option open for relationships, but ultimately, were not ‘stationary’ enough to tell me, before I fell head over heels, that dinner with my parents was out of the question. Whatever the case may be, I believe that amour is to be the constant bane of my existence. Next to breathing, I want nothing else. Even that might be debatable. But all is not lost, gentle reader! Alas, I’ve decided to write a romance advice column called “Heather G gives hypocritical advice to lovelorn idiots with fucked up romantic history”. It is a working title and up for discussion. But expect a romantic lunatic’s musings on anal sex in practically every issue. |
