Bondage

March 3, 2012

“But you and I, we know the truth. We know something about real life, don’t we?” -Sex and the City

Following my revelation, I start seeing The Writer less. He is offered a job on the TV show he’s been trying to get on but earlier than planned. He has to rush to turn in the sample script he’s been putting off, before the offer is official. So I stay up all night writing half of his script with him and call in sick the next morning to help him edit it. My kickass temp job soon becomes my kickass full-time job, and he visits me during lunch once or twice. I bump into him at parties, and he enthusiastically introduces me to people, who I suppose are meant to be important. He begins calling me pet names–babe, pumpks. In return, I become increasingly sassy in the way I speak to him. But it only makes things harder. My sass turns to aggression, and he doesn’t know what to make of it. I’ve become like a little dog that won’t stop snapping. And I can’t seem to shake the thought that’s been repeating across my mindscape over and over since the concert: My life would be better if we were together. It’s not something I want to believe, not at all. But I do believe it, nonetheless.

So I decide to make a choice. I’ll seek refuge in distance; stay away from him and give my heart some space. I already have a long weekend planned to visit my family, and I book a week long trip to New York. When I go back to my city, I realize how much I’ve changed, how much I’ve compromised. I find myself unable to write, so I bury myself in work instead.

I start seeing someone else. His name is Drew. I take it slow with him at first, but then things become very fast-paced.

“You have these walls up like I’ve never seen in anyone,” he tells me after a few weeks. “I’ve been hurt before,” I tell him. He sees me differently than anyone else does. That is the quality that I find most appealing in a partner. It’s the fastest and most constant way to make someone feel special–just see them differently from the rest of the world. The Writer did that, too.

Drew and I have great chemistry–our relationship quickly becomes very physical. It’s not like what I had with The Writer. It’s more brutal. Brutally comforting or brutally sorrowful. “I miss you always,” I whisper to him, crying quietly one night when we’re out, and I’m too drunk to be conscious. He just laughs at me and gives me a squeeze, and the next day I laugh about it, too. He is never bothered by truth the way everyone else seems to be.

I cook him dinners, and he spends the night. While we fall asleep, he presses his nose into my hair and whispers to me in the dark. In the morning, he goes out on my balcony for a cigarette. It’s cold, so I sit between his legs, and he holds me while he smokes.

The playing field is more even with Drew. When our lips part after a kiss, he looks into my eyes with endless Read the rest of this entry »


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