Just when I thought it wouldn’t get any worse, I’m in love

Once again, life threatens to spiral out of control.

This piece will be shittily written, because I haven’t thought out what I want to say, haven’t felt inspiration. But writing is all I know how to do when I can’t rest and can’t get up.

The one saving grace is that this one will probably remain fantasy only. This guy is a consultant that work has hired to teach us something. So he’s my teacher. My first real lust was a teacher when I was fourteen and he was twenty five, young, he was, and in my strange precocious Lolita way, there were charged moments when he wanted me too, almost-consummated, stopped only by his pregnant wife. The dynamic: a happy man living a simple, pretty life, drawn to whatever is dark and wild about me. This repeats, and never has ended well for me.

This teacher is also gorgeous. And nice and personable and patient in that way that I guess you have to be if you make your living selling teaching services. But he is a little younger than me, I think, so now I am the corrupting leader. He is tall and dark, with a beautiful jawline. He is a pilot as well. As in, ahead of me in learning pilot school. A man with almost more balls than me; something I have never had, not really, yet the possibility never fails to inflame me…until they cave in and I see that it was all illusion. But on the surface, he is the perfect canvas for all my fantasies.

This is complicated because I have been living with someone else in a common-law type relationship for years. I don’t love him, but these years have been the best of my life. I have been stable and productive. I think I might be happy, even. Once I understood that my work, my writing, books, would be my one true love in this life (an understanding that came to me in a dream), everything became so much easier. No longer would I chase after the heel of some sadist who waits to crush me. Then, all the messiness and tears and hate and storm fell away.

And we are like brother and sister; we enjoy the same things. I never feel like I have to impress him. I can be my own weird, nerdy self, and it’s ok. We enjoy the same things, the same humor, the same theater. We can sit and watch documentaries all weekend without pressure to go out and do all those things I hate like dancing or going to bars. He tolerates my bitchiness and controlling tendencies with aplomb. He doesn’t really understand my darker moments, because he is basically happy and hasn’t experienced them himself, but he tolerates them. He is also madly in love with me.

And I with him, not so much.

This is cruel, I know. I keep wishing that I could fall in love with him, but I just don’t think that it is going to happen. I tried to break up with him once, for someone else I was “in love with” who turned out to be the biggest asshole on the face of the earth, who mistreated me, but at the beginning, gave the illusion of knowing my darkness. Ditto this for pretty much everyone I have ever been “in love with” before him, except for one.

This new guy, he is…out of my league. He is far too good-looking, and too accomplished, and too nice to be with someone like me. It is like high school or Gatsby all over again, all those tragic books about lusting after the beautiful, developed, sunny girl. I mean, I am pretty, and accomplished, but I’m also nerdy and really sort of a bitch, no matter how hard I try not to be. My temperament, as much as I try to curb it, is essentially wound too tightly. This is the kind of guy who would, after a while, fundamentally not get my need to curl up with a book, why I hate going clubbing with his friends, why I sort of think he is shallow. But he is nice, genuinely nice, and so beautiful, one of those people who seem charmed, who look like the physical embodiment of some metaphor like “sun shines out of him.” Someone who is living happily and luckily. Someone unlike me, maybe a little like what I look like when I try my hardest in front of people who don’t know me very well.

And I know from my work that those people aren’t really like that either, that into every life a little rain must fall or whatever, but still, for them, it is enough of the time really like that, and the rain is so mild; there are people on this earth who are blessed by the gods with beauty and quiet souls, and happiness. And they are so unattainable for wretches like us. It’s like that song/poem:

I remember you well in the Chelsea Hotel
you were famous, your heart was a legend.
You told me again you preferred handsome men
but for me you would make an exception.
And clenching your fist for the ones like us
who are oppressed by the figures of beauty,
you fixed yourself, you said, “Well never mind,
we are ugly but we have the music.”

One of the shittiest things about a being a woman is that those kinds of thoughts are forbidden. You can’t admit that you want in that way. That I want his body, but not much of his mind. And that if I really wanted him, I would have to be coy, and flirt, and get him interested. I am not free to pursue, to chase. I am not allowed to have these appetites. I am not allowed to reach out my hand, to take what I want, in the way that men are.

And men like that can go slumming with someone like me, but they get to use women like me, girls like me, and discard us, because we are not good enough for them anyway, because their friends and people they know are all thinking, “What is he doing with her?”

In my secret life, I keep a lover. I stay with my current life, my brother-partner, because we do have a happy life together, and because we are all going to die anyway, so you may as well love whoever is around you who loves you back. But I also keep throughout my life one lover, someone I could never live with, but who I meet with now and again, even sharing my life with, in a limited, secondhand kind of way, through the years, and we love each other in a way that we never could if we had to live together. We meet to fuck, and then to talk, to reenact a shadow marriage of the one we both live out in our daytime lives. We worry about each other and care deeply, but the distance from day-to-day life keeps the attraction from growing stale and the inequality in the eyes of society from interfering. He doesn’t really understand my darkness, but the fact that we are together so infrequently means that it remains fascinating, rather than onerous, for him, just as his sunniness remains fascinating, and not shallow, to me.

Does this make a horrible person out of me? I am not sure. “The bonds of wedlock are so heavy that it takes two to carry them – sometimes three.” I don’t think I’d be upset if the one I live with had someone like that. I’d be relieved that someone is loving him in a way I can’t. He deserves that.

The one thing I repeat to myself as consolation for the mundane, primitive tragedy of wanting something that I cannot have is that the fantasy is always better than the reality, because it is always exactly what you want. It has been claimed that fantasy is worse than cheating for that same reason. Maybe it is best to just leave him a fantasy, to keep my decent, quiet life.

But then there is always that pounding in my gut, wanting more, more, more. It has a life of its own, is a strange, willful creature; my own little demon inflaming my insides. I wish he would shut up, go away, torture someone else for a while, but no matter how I ignore him, suppress him, drug him into docility, he always comes back, with his pitchfork, and delicious little horned feet dancing on my womb.

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