It was one of those groggy mornings. My head was pounding. I was extremely thirsty. I could not for the life of me remember how the hell I got home. Then I felt something, someone move next to me. Oh right. The pool. I remember making out topless in the pool. There were people around. It was one of those nights at the pub when half of the staff was out drinking. I finished my shift early and joined them. We never paid for a single drink there. It was the most cost-effective, ridiculously messy way to spend our evenings. That particular night there was a few new people. Andrew* had come out with our friend Elaine*. They both worked at my pub. I was really close with her; him I had only shared a couple of shifts with. They were out with some of their friends, all headed to some guy’s house after the pub. His parents’ house was only down the road. They were gone on holiday and so he was throwing a pool party.

Andrew convinced him that I was a respectable human being and that I should also be invited. So we all went. The respectable part of me had unfortunately decided to go on sabbatical that evening. Amongst the many embarrassing things I did that night, I introduced myself to Karen* about twelve times. She was one of their friends that would much later in time become my favorite dance-partner-in-crime. Luckily for me she had a sense of humor. I started introducing myself at the pub, but kept forgetting. A flashback came to me many days later; I was pretty much naked in the pool: “Hi, I’m Christine!” “Yes, I know.” She does not tire of reminding me how wasted I was that night, and how little substance was left of my inebriated brain. Anyhow, I remember never having seen Andrew in such a light. He was always so awkward and nerdy. He was very tall, and uncharacteristically good-looking. There was something about his silent confidence. He was blond and lanky, with cryptic tattoos and interests as far removed from mine as can be. I just never thought we could ever have anything in common.

I recognized him right away, even though he was back to me. I was completely naked and so was he. I ransacked my brain for information. I could not remember anything else from the night. I got one flashback, on a street corner not too far from mine, him kissing me, mostly trying to hold me up straight. I had no idea what had happened next. This was the first time I had woken up next to someone, having absolutely no idea what I had done. Or what had been done to me. He felt me awake and turned around. He smiled and said, “Well good morning you!” I returned this greeting with a grunt only extremely hung-over people are able to produce. I was hurting. His grin teased me.

–       So you drank a lot last night…

–       Yeah… I’m not feeling too great right now.

–       Haha, I’d imagine you aren’t. (long pause.)

–       So… did we?

–       Oh yeah, we did. And then you passed out. Also, you snored.

–       Noooooooo…

I was dying of humiliation. He kept smiling. He kissed me. He had the most mischievous grin.

I do not like mornings in general. To top it, I get horribly hungover after nights like those. Fetal position all day. On days like those, sex is the only thing that can convince me to wake up, or make mornings somewhat acceptable. I could see he could easily be convinced. I thought to myself, it’s already been done: you might as well remember it this time. So I turned to face him and started what I was expecting to be a nice, comfortable session of lazy morning sex. What happened next was the beginning of the most memorable fuck-buddy relationship I ever had the luck to participate in. We saw each other sporadically for the next six months. Only late at night, with as little talk as possible. We never shared coffee or chatted about anything that was not sex-related.

*My house, 20 mins?*

That was the extent of our communication, shining on the screen of his phone. My girlfriends were split in their opinions of this pseudo-relationship. Aren’t you going to get attached? How can you have sex with someone who doesn’t interest you in the least? You hit the jackpot; I want that. These were the three main reactions to my evolving “hook up” relationship. I do not think I thought about it too much. The sex was mind-blowing.

His penis was absolute perfection. I could stare at it for hours. It was the epitome of erections. Large, straight, thick and glorious. It filled me to my extremes. He was confident, adventurous and took initiative in the bedroom. He did yoga, which allowed for some innovation. He was strong, sensual and so passionate. Not the inflammable kind of passion though. It was passion for the job well done, passion for the body and the experience. It was like scientific passion, if you will. He said it was new to him my being tall. We both experienced new ways of bending and being one. We explored our sexualities together.

We had sex quite regularly for those six months. I fell in love with his penis. It was love at first sight. Well, actually I do not remember its first sight, so not technically. It eventually ended because Andrew was convinced that I had fallen in love with him. I definitely had not. Yet I understand how difficult it can be to believe that from his perspective. We are taught that feelings and sex, if the relationship is ongoing, are inextricably linked. I believe they generally are. I also believe in exceptions. This was mine. I do not know whether I would be capable of a relationship like that again, or whether it was merely a question of extremely precise timing and physical compatibility. Him and I have practically nothing else in common. That helped. In any case, we had a couple of repeats over the years and they are always phenomenal. No questions are asked. When I get the opportunity, I escape my messed-up love life with him. I think he might be doing just the same. It is merely physical and that is great sometimes. Simple and great. There is no debasement, no objectification, and no disappointment. I never think about it, except as a fond memory. I never long for him, maybe just when I have had the misfortune of encountering someone really bad at sex. Or when I have been sexually unhappy for a while. There was never any ambiguity in that relationship and that is the key for me. I never wanted more from it than what it was, and there is something quite powerful about that.

All I really have to tell are stories of sex, alcohol, questioning and travel. Maybe some are about love, but I know very little about love. This one is about travel. If you ever have the chance to pack up your shit and leave, for the purpose of discovery not flight, do it. Do it, do it, do it. There is nothing quite like being on your own, on an unknown side of the planet, watching yourself having the time of your life, as if through an external camera shot. Did that really happen to me? Some memories remain in my heart with something of a foreign quality to them, not quite mine. I feel that travelling does that. Every time I say: “when I was living in Argentina,” I feel that way. The memory enters a deeper, less conscious part of my brain and lives untouched until something new and specific jolts it back to life. It never becomes quite as clear as it was. The words are lost, the names and precise places are irrelevant. Colors and smells stay. Feelings, emotions never leave me. They are the stepping-stones to the creation of the being that I am now, in even the slightest of ways.

Before my big gap year around the world I felt that wanderlust. I had itchy feet. After the trip, I was addicted. I never quite understand how people are satisfied with settling, or being settled. I can never comprehend for the first little while home, how people have stagnated, whilst I was off adventuring. At first I felt privileged, to having been given the opportunity to explore, which lead me to feel sad for the people who could not afford to. Later I started to feel that it was almost somewhat of a duty, to force yourself to exit your comfort zone to discover who you can truly be. I am still conflicted between the humility demanded of my lucky situation and my anger towards the people that I feel, are just being lazy. I understand it is not something anyone can just do, pick up and leave. Yet I still feel frustrated with people who do not even try. I think it is something that some people maybe are. Some people are sedentary, others vagabonds. Others are something other still.

My wanders seem to have harmed me in ways that improved me. I am not sure this makes any sense to you so I am going to try to explain myself. I have come to realize a certain pattern between my unhappy love life and my exhilarating life as a person- the single unit. I think I am addicted to intensity. This leads me to try and surpass myself time and time again, pushing my boundaries and self-reflecting on their mere existence. However it shows to be harmful in that I lack some sort of patience nowadays. Things have to be all or nothing, or I lose interest very quickly. I think this is a by-product of the life on the road. In that life, you have to make split-second decisions, judgment calls that you stick to. You can be wrong or right, you always know where the choice came from. When you enter a dark alleyway, or follow a complete stranger to a remote place, you never have the time to make an informed decision. You follow your gut. I think that is partly why I find it hard to relate to sedentary people who stick to the safety of their comfort zones. Luckily, my gut most often led me to incredibly wonderful experiences. A few times I was disappointed, but fortunately for now, nothing bad ever happened to me.

Coming home again can therefore also be very unsettling. It feels foreign, same but different. Everything looks just as you left it, but it feels different, as if it had been moved just a couple of inches, when most often it is only me that has changed. I have known many people who confessed to having that same feeling upon coming home, time and time again. It raises the question of what actually changes in your self, whilst travelling. I think a lot of it is linked to that different part of your brain that you activated on the road. Now the settlers are maybe incapable of such thinking and hence sedentary. Maybe not everyone is capable of following their gut, or knows no such feeling, and so they are terrified of the idea of relying on it. I think it is a bit of both. I am good at travelling and connecting because I travelled, and I travelled because I am good at those things. I need the human connection in a way that not everyone does. I think you also need to not be afraid of wasting time, which goes so unnaturally with our current values’ system.

There is a very deep and important concept in my culture called Sudbina. It is, if you will, destiny. Not the kind of pre-destined religious crap people use to absolve themselves of guilt. It is the kind that leads you to where you are, no matter how slim the chances were. When something incredulous happens, often tied to impossible timing, you blame or thank sudbina. There is some sort of reason for your experiencing this precise occurrence and you are supposed to learn the moral some day, if not immediately. I like that concept. It helps me when I fuck up. See if I get on the wrong bus, or get lost, and lose a lot of our oh-so-precious time, I think to myself: Well there was something on the “right” path that was not “right” for me to experience today. It gives me comfort, and I lose my temper just a little bit less. I try to do that with failed relationships, unfortunately it does not hold up so well against the pit-bull inside me.

Anyhow sudbina and the gut feeling could appear to be contradictory. I disagree. I think they are both coping mechanisms for a life that can appear or feel senseless. But that life is so full of magic that you just need to stop and look at it. That day on that boat looking over the river, that day making love in that car in the middle of a field with a complete stranger, that day when he hugged me and I could not breathe by myself any longer, that day driving that boat as fast as it could go… All of those memories do not serve a “purpose” per se. I cannot put them on my resume. They led me nowhere further then that moment. That is what is magical about them. They are their own riches. My riches. Forever the things I did that made me feel that I was doing the most I could out of life, and I was exactly where I was meant to be.

I see myself as a misfit in the loner department. I like being alone. I travel best alone. I need time on my own to feel sane and compartmentalize my emotions, to hear myself think. Yet I am an extreme extrovert. I need people around me. I like to talk and laugh and dance and cry and drink. I love sleeping next to someone. It makes me feel that there is something in the universe stronger than me. I long for that feeling of unity, especially when it comes from the lonesome actions, like sleeping. That is the perfect combination of those two sides of me. They are difficult to mediate, specifically when I try to rationalize them. They usually coexist in me, taking turns in governing my actions and thoughts. This is why I have great friends and I would give them the world. I need them. They also know I need to be outside of the group at times. They know to let me live as the electron that depends and revolves around the centre, yet has a life of its own. They accept me as who I am, even though I sometimes have impulses to send them all to hell and run as far away as I can. They probably share that impulse towards me quite often.

Imagine the problem then when I like someone. Like truly, deeply, like them. I am torn between the need to be myself—that need for independence—and my love of love. I become addicted to the intensity of the feeling of being in love. I become another version of myself, the extrovert at its epitome. My heart then explodes into millions of sparkly pieces when I reach the state of perfect unity in lonesomeness. That state is however very fickle, and extremely difficult to achieve, because it involves two people being in perfect sync. When does that ever happen, you ask? And you are right to. Almost never. But sometimes, some wonderful times, the stars align and nothing compares. The rest of my life I spend longing for those moments, those feelings, bargaining solitude and suffocating togetherness. Most of the time I choose to be alone in crowded rooms. That is the red thread of my life.

As always however, bargaining with yourself is highly unpleasant. It is compromising your gut feeling, feeling sorry for yourself and painting extraordinary pictures that are but faintly based in reality, all at the same time. People are happiest when they face who they truly are as a person and stop bargaining. When you are truly honest with yourself, nothing can touch you—except for that which is stronger, greater than you. As I was sitting on the patio in Croatia, drinking and dwelling in my heartbreak, I felt unworthy. I felt that something, the Gods or the stars had sent me a sign that I did not deserve the good, the love that I had felt, so they pulled the rug from under me. And as my head collapsed onto the hard concrete, instead of caring for and soothing myself, my subconscious said think about what you did there, as if I had any influence on other people’s emotions. You can call it sudbina—I started writing this memoir. I started telling you my story. Maybe I was not unworthy of that relationship, maybe I was worthy of the words that needed to be written. It makes me laugh how shortsighted human beings are. Greater purpose is retroactive, when it is not sarcastic.

Yet here I am, in a much less romantic setting, with my coffee frapuccino and yet another cigarette, pondering the same question. Is the Inexplicable Man someone with a greater purpose in my life? His fickleness set me aback, but sprung me forward. He loved me. He loves me? Will I ever know? Can you trust someone who let you down and betrayed themselves? These are not rhetorical questions: they are real. I believe everyone deserves a second chance. I also believe people who give third chances just enjoy being shat on the head. That is their decision. Still second chances are tricky. Why would I give up on someone for a simple mistake, that they in fact needed to make to ensure it was indeed a mistake? Alright so I do not judge him for his actions, but can we ever go back? What happens when the desire for something big comes from something too small- someone too fickle? Is it ever too little, too late in matters of the heart? I cannot let myself be the kind of person that gives up on something potentially great because it might fail. I want to follow my gut feeling. The problem is, when I like someone, my addiction to the intensity, my addiction to butterflies usually takes the lead. And when the feeling has been compromised, the electron in me wants to keep spinning, never stops thinking.

I am giving him a second chance and as I do so, I am forced to reconsider the choices I have made up until now. And by forced I mean my fucked-up over-thinking-crazed brain is unable to stop itself. What made me, on one of my last days in Europe that summer, accept a breakfast invitation with the one man who had many years previous, also left me for his ex? I bumped into Damir* one night in my hometown and he insisted we catch up in the next couple of days. We had dated for a week a very long time ago. I never even had sex with him. We did however dance in deserted streets to music that existed only in our heads. We had held hands walking and exchanging the most magnificent words. He was a musician and a master of words. Not in the sense I think about words now, but in a poetic sense. His messages to me were art, quite simply. Unfortunately, he had that baggage that came back to get him. I only realized the parallels between my brief fling with Damir and my situation with Mr. Inexplicable half way through breakfast. I burst out laughing in my head. Of course, I would choose to see this man, who I adore to this day, at the same time as contemplating forgiveness and second chances in my current dilemma. The irony was overwhelming.

I made a lot of strange choices that summer, while processing the heartbreak and the meanings of my life path up to that point. Many of the situations I found myself in were highly morally questionable, if not outright wrong. Self-defense, self-reassurance or identity building, or whatever it was. I regret none of them. I wanted more, and maybe I still do. It was me searching for that intensity, for that connection that was lost and I was missing. And now, the frappucino has become a glass of wine, and I am offered that connection back. Yes, it has been compromised; it is not the same. But isn’t that what I had been doing all along, compromising, bargaining? Oh well, this connection is honest; all cards are on the table. There might be too many, and I might not know which game to play, but it is our game. I have played excessive amounts of cards that were not even mine to begin with. It is time to start writing my own rules, in chalk, with question marks at the end, and a wet cloth always at hand. At least they will be mine, part of the story.

The thing about being fantastically good at being on one’s own is that reaching out becomes ridiculous. It becomes a sign of weakness, not viable. Sitting on my couch, sobbing compulsively, there is no one I want to call, no one who will not be inconvenienced by my sudden need of empathy. Of course they would understand. Of course it happens to everybody. The thing is, when you are the strong one, it is more than counterintuitive—it is unfeasible. The help that I need, it needs to come without me asking for it. I need someone who wants to care and support and carry me when I need it, even if those moments are indeed rare.

One night a few years ago, I got unbelievably drunk. I was having a great time and needed an escape from the stress, from the responsibilities. I ignored that moment, that shot I should not have taken. The greatest thing happened. I woke up utterly unaware of how I had gotten home. I was fully dressed, rightfully tucked in the utmost peaceful sleeping position and gently covered. I thought there is no way I put my own self to sleep like this. If I had come home alone, I would be sprawled sideways, totally naked and disheveled. I called my friend with the ever-so pleasant question: “what the fuck happened last night?”

–       Funny you should ask, I’m walking with your knight and shining armor as we speak. Wanna talk to him?

–       Yes… Wait, do I? Hello?

–       Hi.

–       Hi?

–       How’s the head my dear?

–       Oh, hey Tim*! Thank you so much for last night. I’m so sorry I got so drunk!!! * insert best embarrassed apologetic tone *

–       That’s really ok. Happens to the best of us. We should grab coffee later- maybe I can enlighten you on some things.

–       Yes, that would be lovely. Thanks again.

It only dawned on me then that I had put a target on Tim’s head half way through the night. I was going home with him, whether he was aware of that or not. Unfortunately, I ended up being the unaware one. He confessed to me later that day we had had great fun. I made him storm the stage where a band was playing, and run out wildly through the fire exit of the club. It was one of those typical Christine kind-of nights. He took me home and I fell asleep in the cab. I was so drunk he had to, as the perfect gentleman, resort to simply tucking me in. It was the gentlest anyone had been with me in a while. It compared with Joe’s hand gesture.

It was a grand gesture, utterly unexpected and exceedingly welcome. We eventually did sleep together, and it was as unpredicted. We had known each other for so long, and it had never crossed our minds before. We were not very close prior to that night, but gravitated in the same circles. He told me he had always thought of me as “so much older and professional.” I will never forget his exact words. He was older than me. I was a bartender. It seemed so unlikely to me that those would be the words he would choose to describe me. Now it resonates with my self-description as the strong one. Yet there is that contradicting side of me that made him do all those things, that person that I used to be much more often when I was younger.

That night I met a girl who would soon become someone very dear to me, Alicia*. She was my partner in crime that night, and so often since. She makes me do shots, even if reluctantly. I bring out the smoker and German-speaker in her. She is my sounding board so often and I will never be able to thank her enough for that.  She never judges me. There are people in your life that just comfort you about the state of humanity. She is one of those people. Her support is one I never need to ask for.

I think that is partly why I do not understand people who think they can get all that they need from one person. It just does not seem possible. Love should come from all around you- from every single person in your life. Attention-seekers like me cannot be satisfied by one and only person. I need people like Alicia to ask me what is going on in my life with no agenda. I need people like Tim who are genuinely kind. Your special someone gets a special kind of love, one that is more passionate, sexual, but also more volatile and complicated. That love is the one that can turn to hate. The love I share with my friends is stable as a rock. The simple reminder of this helps me stop sobbing, when I am having a crisis on my couch, strangled by loneliness. I remember my favorite girls and boys and all that they do, have done and continue to do—simply because we love each other. But enough with the cheese now. Love is necessary for life. And so is a big, hard penis when you need one.

“Seriously though, you’ve slept with two people in your entire life! You aren’t happy in this relationship. How do you think this is going to play out? Are you going to have children and get married and finish school with this guy who is already driving you crazy and hurting you? You need to get out there!!! Two people?!?”

This was my great and insightful input into Devi’s personal crisis a few years ago. I mean I cannot fathom the idea of getting to be twenty-four and having had two very long and very serious relationships compose all of my sexual experience. At that point, even Angie said: “Well yeah, two seems so little. But chica, whatever makes you happy, we love you and will support you!” She was always much more diplomatic than I ever will be. I kept thinking of the shame it was! Devi is an amazing girl. She is tall, gorgeous and smart. She commands attention and most importantly she is freaking hilarious. What a catch! I get how the men in her life would want to keep her around. I do not get how she got stuck with them. To be in a relationship is a fantastic feeling, and sure I have had my moments of daydream, with the children and the beautiful life ahead of us with a couple of men. Those dissipated with a single touch of reality. This is why I had a hard time relating to Devi’s decision making. I could not seriously think she was considering spending the rest of her life without having tried what is out there, without any comparison. It just seemed like blind trust, or fear of being alone, or naivety. She never struck me as a hopeless romantic either- she is quite the realist. In any case, she left the guy and got into another, happier serious relationship shortly after. Some people are made for that I guess.

Yet that fight between Devi and her ex sparked a most interesting conversation between the girls and I. “What is your number?” I asked Angie. It seems like the question of our time when it comes to sexual morals and acceptable behavior. It is a question that surfaces into my life time and time again, across various cultures, religions, languages and oceans. What is your number? What is the appropriate number? What makes it usually more acceptable for men to have higher numbers? What do we do with women with morally unacceptably high numbers? This seemed to be on everyone’s minds. Women ten years older than me were struggling with it worse than I did I think. One of my friends in Belgrade brought it up around the dinner table in front of our respective families. She was just telling us a story about how funny it was that every man wanted to know. “I tell every single one of them that they’re the second one.” The second one in Serbian also means the other one, which gives it an air of affair and misconduct that is ever so attractive. She said it further took away the pressure of being the first without leaving a second-hand taste in their mouths. She clearly spent a lot of time bargaining with herself. Being in your thirties, single and childless in Serbia renders you pretty much irrelevant even in our day and age. Let me just say that I do not envy her position.

Angie started counting and so did I. Angie was probably at the average number I would say. Above ten, but way below thirty. She had had more flings than serious relationships. The only time I had ever known her to be committed was with Peter. In any case, I kept listing and listing… It took me three days to come up with a definitive number and not without help. I was at twenty-eight. The girls and I agreed a “dirty thirty” party was imminent and necessary. You know with penis-shaped paraphernalia, best and worst recounting, etc. That party never happened. #29 turned out to last quite some time and fuck with my head more than I expected. He permeated all sides of my life with drama. Some guys are like that, due to little fault of their own even. They fail to or miscalculate every single one of their own moves to the point where their baggage and intentions and story start looking like a web of crap, tangled in dramaturgy and need, wrapping you up until you lose sight of who you are and hate the person that you have inadvertently become. The point here is plans are quite useless and rarely come to fruition.

My number has not stopped increasing since. At times it gives me vertigo. Reminiscing over my experiences makes me smile, and cry at times, but I feel they are part of the riches I will always have as my own. No regrets, remember? I still struggle with understanding our society with regards to this. My male friends who know this about me keep saying they would hate me if I were a dude. They ascertain that the facility with which I “pick up” is all they ever wanted. Yet they make sure to also repeat their reluctance to dating girls like me. What is this bullshit double standard? You want a lady in the streets, but a freak in the sheets. You want to be “the second one.” You want to have someone who knows her way around life, but is innocent enough for you never to feel threatened by her, I told them. Awkward silence and guilty looks were always exchanged at this point. My guy friends recognized the logical validity of my points, yet were unable to translate it into their desires and behavior. I really do not think of myself as much of a feminist, if at all. Nevertheless the manner in which men respond to my being a “women with the morals of a man” appalls me. It is 2013 people. The mottos of our society is fulfill your individualism, maximize your potential, live your dreams. How is it then that sleeping around, taking full advantage of the pleasures of life, eating, drinking, smoking and sex is so morally reprimanded? I am not talking about excess to the point of illness. I am talking about healthy, responsible, consensual and sensual pleasures. I refuse to believe that I would need to give any of these up for a “man.” Yet I still believe in love. The right women-respecting, confident, intelligent man-slut must come around for me. And he will.

I say he has to be a man-slut not to be offended by my baggage. I may be wrong. At this point of my life however, having little emotional baggage but a large number of sexual partners seems to be a disadvantage in the quest for true love. Yes, because my knowing more moves than others and being upfront about sex is definitely harder to handle in a relationship than a lunatic ex-girlfriend, or confused unresolved emotional issues. Sure. I’ll buy that. In any case, #30 turned out to be quite memorable, as you already know, and I think that was party enough for me. It reminds me that I never did install a mirror on my ceiling like I had planned. Am I afraid of people judging me if I did? Perhaps. Oh how hypocrisy rears its ugly head. Even I cannot refrain from hiding my inner slut from the public. Slut is the wrong word, I know. We just do not have a word for “girls like me”, yet. Maybe then I will get to have my sex mirror, and be proud of it. When language and society permit it.

I like to present myself as a smart-ass, a cynic of sorts, like I have seen and done it all. It feels like swagger. I am acutely aware this is a front, yet I still very much like it. I do not like to face that I am in fact a hopeful optimist. It does not go along with most of my beliefs or mottos. I truly do think that people are capable of the worst and Hobbesian in nature. I cannot however shake the overpowering gut reflex that makes me believe that people strive to be good. This striving is not instinctive; it does not come naturally. Yet there is something to be said about guilt. It would not be there if we did not, as individuals who take part in social relations, strive to be good people. There would be no such thing as remorse. Yet there is, and time and time again we regret not having been better people. We regret having lied, played games or succumbed to the easy way out—which by the way most often ends up being really complicated.

I have to stop here to exclude sociopaths and psychopaths and the likes, but also just mere and simple assholes. Some of us, clinically or otherwise, are simply incapable of being good, or have no intention of it. It is therefore also difficult for the rest of us to tell between the true assholes and the accidental ones. The ones that were that to you, at that moment, because they were too weak or did not know any better. I like that I still believe in people. I like that I have difficulty believing (accepting?) that some people are true assholes. I am afraid off course that it will ruin me. Do not misunderstand: I am a pretty good judge of creepers, thieves and generally badly intentioned strangers. I am afraid of misjudging the ones close to me, mostly men. How much understanding is healthy and necessary for the betterment of humankind? How much is simply naïveté or delusion?

 ***

We were in the crowd. His hand grazed mine, moving on to hover over my ass, up my arm and past my breast. We were surrounded by people who could not ever know what was about to happen. He grabbed my hand, hiding it ever so subtly away from curious eyes. He looked at me intensely, in split seconds. Next thing I know, his hand, the one grabbing me in the club, was down my pants, into my underwear. The transgressing hand knew exactly what to do. I held on to the sink in the handicapped stall we were in, like my life depended on it. And it somewhat did. No one had touched me like that since I had had my heart broken. No one had wanted me that intently. No one had, for better or for worse, crossed lines and taken risks for me. His kisses were intense and profound. He bit at my shoulder and shoved and pulled. I almost fell to my knees. I think I was screaming; it felt like I was. It was about 3a.m. and we needed to get back to catch the last bus. As we squeezed ourselves out of reality, maneuvering the cornerstones of our daily routines, we somehow ended up in bed. We had been so aroused by the many obstacles to this inevitable outcome that the scene entered into an alternate world. This world was a place where the wrong thing was the right thing. This place allowed for the expression of deepest, darkest desires coming into existence. Something we had both secretly been starving for so long, occurred. He was deep inside me, both through his intense gaze and literally. I wanted all of him. I wanted to feel him revel in me, like I was reveling in him. We had been but estranged fantasies up until that night. The intensity was feeding my addiction and I lost myself.

The next morning I wanted more, and more and more. The addiction was taking over me yet again. He had obligations to attend to. Real life needed us both back. It dawned on me after I closed the door on him that I had done it again. For someone who is so loyal, and bent up on her own principles, I had allowed someone to break the very rules I stood by. I would never cheat. I have never cheated. I have been cheated on, and never let it shake my trust in faithfulness. Yet it was not the first time I had made someone a cheater. I generally avoid pursuing taken men. I am not a home-wrecker. I do not however have scruples sleeping with men who intently and actively pursue me, no matter their status. The tension between these two facts is hard to qualify. I am a free agent, and as such can do whatever the heck I want. If they show no guilt in the immorality of their actions, why should I? I have never pursued a man who was taken and committed. I have conversely dragged back into my bed men that had cheated on their girlfriends with me previously. They had shown no remorse. That is how I explain my ethics to myself. It is important to note here I am not talking about married men. I do not know why it makes a difference to me, maybe I still believe in some remnants of the institution, but I will not knowingly sleep with a married man.

Now I do not know whether he had cheated before or whether he would again. I do not care. I know what he was for me: an escape. He was the distraction I needed. It is highly likely that it was mutual in that aspect. Nevertheless it does not matter to me to know whether he, or any other person that has cheated with me, is an accidental or a true asshole. I would never consider them worthy of my time, love and affection. They did not strive to be good; they never apologized for doing their doings. They wanted more. They thought because I had moments where I needed things like them, I was approving of their moral etiquette. Well, I am not. Mostly I needed an asshole to show the strength I had wanted from the men I did care about, and in some sense I needed to be an asshole myself. Here’s a toast to the douchebags: you come in handy sometimes. Thanks for that. Yet I know that that was a decision I was making consciously, a defense mechanism I was performing. I know the strength, or balls that these men displayed were but fake appearances, a beautiful masquerade.

This is all to say that it is very easy, and sometimes necessary to be an asshole, accidental or otherwise. What is easy though is not what is real. Life is messy, complicated, difficult and senseless. Life is about contradictions and tension. I was with cheaters when I needed strength for myself, when I need to be reinsured in my capabilities, in my attractiveness, in my worthiness. Isn’t it strange how those sexcapades never do quite accomplish anything other than distraction? I did not feel better inherently; they did not help me become anything other than who I already was. I just got to turn off my brain for a while, live in the moment, forget. When it all came back rushing into my head, I had renewed my energy. I had given myself the strength I needed for myself. This is why I think no one is ever responsible for anything other than themselves. You are only ever as strong as you chose to be. So love yourself. Take care of yourself. Do the wrong thing that is the right thing. But strive to be good, strive to be proud of the person that you are: because you only ever get to be yourself.

The funny thing about honesty is that you never know if you are getting it. Granted you often find out if you were not. Still the perception of honesty comes from one thing, and one thing only: trust. Once that trust is taken away, ripped apart or never existed to begin with, all that is left are some deep dark thoughts and worst-case scenarios. I experienced new levels of falling apart and rising to the top in a short month. I want to take you on this emotional elevator ride with me. This story is not for the light-hearted, I promise you that much.

Liam*—Mr. Inexplicable as I have called him so far, and I were trying really hard to make things work. It was difficult and tedious and so tiring. The sex was not even good. He was lazy, self-involved, and absorbed in another world. None of the “insane connection” I was craving, the sole purpose of my return was there. But I loved him, so I stayed. He said, “I don’t wanna give up just because it’s hard.” So we kept trying for 6 weeks we just tried. And it was exhausting. I kept thinking he needed me to be there for him, to support him on his journey. He was finally dealing with the horrible things that had happened to him over that summer, and in his life in general. Of course I would not be a priority right away, of course he needed to talk, and talk, and talk, and talk, about himself, about his problems, about his life. And I kept seeing none of me ever reflected in his words, she was still there haunting my every breath… and at times he said the worst things he could possibly say and my breath stopped. My heart broke a little every time. “This morning I woke up and had to check myself, figure out where I was and who was next me… I’ve been so all over the place lately…” He might as well have said “I thought of her while I was hugging you all night,” because that’s all my heart could hear.

So even though it hurt and even though neither of us were really happy, I thought it was all for something. There were glimpses of hope, a few laughs and sincere smiles. I thought he would eventually come to his senses. And then he blew up. I was asking for more than he could give. He could not give me shit apparently, since all I was asking for was honesty. He needed to focus on Liam, and I had to stop focusing on Liam. He blew up on the phone at his lunch break. I told him none of this could happen like this, that he owed me the respect to tell it to my face. And then he said “Why? So you can convince me to be in a relationship that I do not want?” I wanted to hang up and never hear his voice again. He did not even have the decency to be an adult and respect the one woman who had done absolutely nothing to hurt him. I gathered strength I did not even know I had. “No, I just need to hear the words you just said in person to have closure.” “Fine then, see you after work. Bye.”

So he had made the decision. I had to make him realize that he could not just be an asshole; that he still had to talk to people, that even though he was fighting his battles, his actions impacted more than his little self. No, I did not want to break up. Yes, this is also what I needed. And so we broke up for the second time. I felt like this time it was the hardest thing. He had given up. I just had to face the fact that I loved someone who did not, could not, love me back. He stayed over that night; we had dinner and talked. We talked instead of watching a dumb movie. For the first time in a while he looked at me. So when he left for work, I disintegrated.

I closed the door and went back to sleep, to ignore this brutal reality for just a little longer. When I woke up, each step I took shone a light on something that reminded me of him. His soap in the shower, the nutella we bought together to make crepes, the bag of my favorite childhood crisps I had bought just for him, the bottle of whiskey that I do not like and lastly—the towel that still smelt like him. Those were all the things I had left. I hugged that towel like it was the last time I would ever remember what he smelled like, like it was him I could hold on to for a couple more minutes before throwing it in the hamper.

The following week was torturous. It took all the energy in me just to keep going, accept failure and move on. I was single again. I realized what my girlfriends had repeatedly been saying after their breakups: “I just want to tell him how shitty I feel because when I feel shitty I want to talk to him. But now he’s the one making me feel shitty so I can’t call him and it makes me feel even worse.” I get it now. Damn. I was tired. I could not face the idea of putting myself out there, of hunting. I did not even want to sleep with anyone and that was really weird. I just felt defeated and I missed him. So I got drunk on that Saturday. I had been a week since we had talked. 10.30 pm came around….

Me: “So you don’t miss me….” (Yes, I know I’m smooth like that.)

Him: “Why would you stay that? I was just wondering how you were doing actually.”

“Were you?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you say that?”

“I didn’t think that you do.”

“That’s not nice.”

“I’m sorry I just thought you didn’t.”

“I do. But what should I do, text you that?”

I guess he had a point. What was I expecting? We break up and then he is supposed to tell me he is suffering? I guess not. I did not know what to say… I apologized the next morning and we caught up properly. He understood. We did both miss each other. But it was for the best. That was Thanksgiving morning. So I went to hang out with my friends, who have the most beautiful little children and comforted my soul with the extraordinary innocence, the warmth and pure sincerity of which they are the sole providers. We ate great food, watched a bit of Star Wars and reveled in the purest kind of love. I got into bed quite early and fell asleep easily for the first time. I did not even have nightmares that night.

3:42 a.m.

“Hey!”

“Hi, what’s going on?”

“Not much, you sleepin’?”

“Well, yes I was. What’s going on?”

“Nothing, I just wanted to see what you were doing, hear you voice. I wanna see you.”

“I wanna see you too…”

“Oh but you were sleeping, you sound so cute, groggy like that.”

“You want to see me now? What’s up, did you go out?”

“Yeah, we went out drinking. I’m downtown… It’s probably too late, you can’t come get me. That would be inappropriate…”

*I grunted.*

“Oh but you sound so cute, I need to see you.”

“Well, it is inappropriate, but I’m up now. Are your friends with you, are guys stranded?”

“Yeah, but we can get a cab, like…”

“No, it’s fine. I’ll be there in 20.”

I got up, put my sweatpants and my reading glasses on. I was ecstatic. He booty-called me. He wanted to see me. His cuteness at my cuteness was unbearable. I was overjoyed. This was it. He could not stand being apart from me either. When I found them, I realized the level of alcohol that had been consumed. His two buddies were just as wasted so I let them sleep on my couch. Once I closed my bedroom door, Liam had his bedroom eyes on. “I want to go down on you.” “That’s a very sweet thought darling, but here’s a glass of water. You should sleep.” A few sloppy, yet highly passionate kisses later he was out cold, snoring. At 5.30 his usual alarm for work started ringing. Since it was Thanksgiving, Monday was a holiday. He was absolutely passed out. So I reluctantly got up to find his phone to turn off the fucking alarm. As I swiped, the alarm silenced and the screen unlocked to the home screen of his text messages.

There it was, third name down. She was right there. The last text exchanged between them was “miss you.” See from the home screen, you cannot tell who sent it, just what it said. He was snoring so loudly. I had to look. I had to see. Did he send that?? Did she? When? Why? So I went in. Next thing I know, I have read a month and a half of daily messages and I do not feel well. Wait, I feel like utter shit. Oh fuck, get up, run, quietly, run. I had barely managed to shut the bathroom door as my guts came spewing out. For the first time ever, I fully understood what “sickening” meant. I had used the expression several times before. “This makes me sick.” I had no idea what it meant. See this is how important words are. I had consistently over-exaggerated my feelings of disgust. This was the first time I understood the expression and I hated it. How could he? How did he dare? Calling her baby, calling her his. I had to go back, I had to check again. Was this all a nightmare? I am going to wake up anytime soon, right? This cannot be happening.

“I keep comparing this chick to you. She will never match up. So boring. No chance.”

Nope there it was, in real life, shining at me through the darkness. Black on white. Words set in writing, definite, cold, painful, sickening. I need to take a break even as I sit here writing this. That feeling haunts me to this day. What was I supposed to do? It was now 6:30am, still pitch black outside. I tried to make myself as small as physically possible in the bed. There was no waking him in this state. And what was I going to do? Kick all three of them out in the middle of the night? How could he?? Was he fucking kidding me? The fucking liar. I was so disgusted. I want to hit him. I want to spit on him. There were so many messages, so many innuendos. It was so insulting. How dare he even mention me to her?? Who the fuck is this cunt? I tried to fall asleep, to hopelessly make it stop. Sleep would be my release. Time would fly. That’s it Christine, just sleep. His snoring was like the dagger in my heart, consistently poking at it, twisting and turning, rhythmically, ensuring I could not breath. SHUT THE FUCK UP! I screeched inside my soul. I had to keep fighting the gagging that would not stop. And so I lived through to 8am, when one of his buddies got up and asked me for directions home.

When I walked back in the room, he felt me get back into bed, through his intoxicated, sleep haze. “Come here.” He tried to hug me. “Don’t fucking touch me.” Confused half asleep look ensued. “I did something bad last night, so don’t fucking touch me right now.” “What?” “I read your messages.” Pause.

“So aren’t you gonna say anything?” He asked. “Well, it’s disgusting and you’re a fucking liar.” Pause. He got up and angrily walked to the bathroom. When he came back in, he was packing up, drunkenly insisting he was going to leave; I was never going to believe him; it was no use. “Well if you want to leave and give up this is your cue. But I’m sitting here asking you what the fuck is going on. So if you wish to dignify me an explanation, I’m all ears.” And then he proceeded to give me an explanation, so plausible, yet so easy that you begin to slowly hate yourself for being in your own shoes and having to make choices. So I sat in silence, contemplating my options. I looked up at this man who had done little but lift me up and smash me back down. How could I have hurt so much from this one man and still be looking at him? Hours prior I had felt more hatred and disgust towards him than I thought I was even capable of for anyone. Could I believe him? Could I take the risk of being the biggest idiot, fool the world had ever seen? Was it possible that he was so fucked up as to not realize what he had been doing to me? Kick him out and it’s over forever.

We argued for hours. His buddy left half way through, probably having no clue of what was going on, since I had miraculously managed to keep it down. I asked questions, he answered them. Always giving me enough to believe, not enough to reassure. He apologized profusely. He did not beg. He just stated and felt bad for me. He felt bad I had to go through that. Did he feel bad about doing it? He did much later, but probably not that instant. I was tired. I could not argue anymore. I couldn’t think anymore. I was delusional from emotion and lack of sleep. I have never been so confused in my life.

So we paused. We paused life and watched Back to the Future. We had sex several times. It was the best afternoon we had had since before the summer. The whole time we had been back together had been so difficult and tedious. That afternoon, it felt like we finally had some release. He looked and felt relieved. Relieved that I had found out, relieved that someone knew the depth of the shit he had gotten himself in. This made me want to believe him. He did not say anything to make me feel this way. There was just something about his behavior, his touch that felt like he was relieved. He looked like for the first time in a while the stinky, disgusting, horrifying mess he had made was on the table. It was manifest and someone was there to accept him and recognize he was a human being that had just majorly fucked up and had to start facing it.  I did not trust him. I would not for a long time. I hated him for what he had done to me and the thought of it still makes me very angry. He left in the evening. I fell asleep quite fast. Sleep, finally. The next morning I realized sleep was no safe zone either. The dreams I had that entire week will probably haunt me forever. It felt like my subconscious was trying to tell me: “yes, Christine, that was rock bottom.”

But we had the best day…

The week that followed, we kept on texting quite regularly, very nonchalantly. He continuously apologized. He was realizing what he had done and he was sorry. He had not cheated. He had not done anything against any outright written rules. He had betrayed me. He had betrayed the trust of the one person who had not been using him. It caused him to finally start dealing with his underlying issues. I was happy for him, for his progress, yet the nightmares would not stop. He still called me baby, and still did not prioritize me at all. So, I tried to keep living, tried to process what the hell I had been feeling. When my friend called me on Friday to ask if I could help her shoot her first video for one of her songs the next day, I could not be happier. Helping someone else and evading my own life was exactly what I wanted to do. So I went, and it turned out to be a true Christine kind of day. I met a handful of wonderful people and potentially got myself a job. I was networking—one of my all-time favorite things to do. My friend looked gorgeous and it was really cool being in a video. All around, I was ecstatic to be reconnecting with myself. I went to work that night with a smile on my face. I had a big presentation on the Monday, so I had to work hard at it all Sunday, iron my suit and run some errands. It was looking like a very productive weekend.

I realized around 11am on Sunday morning that I had not heard from him since Friday afternoon. All I could picture, from then on, was him, balls deep inside of her. Aha! The self-torture had permeated from my subconscious, my dreams, into full consciousness and all hope of relief was lost. The images, the sounds, the words, the looks. I saw it all. I heard it all, in my head, even the witch’s voice had somehow become real. I had to work through it; I had to keep my head above the water. It was a daylong battle against suffocation, a twenty-four-hour drowning in shallow waters. The next day as expected, he texted me from work. How very convenient I thought. When I had not answered two hours later, he texted again. Never mind that I was actually busy with the presentation, he knew something was wrong. You see, it does not feel good when someone stops prioritizing you; let alone when they never did in the first place. So I started answering, sheepishly and slowly, shyly gloating about my eventful weekend. Until I realized that evening that I could not keep doing this to myself. I had to be my own best friend and acknowledge what I was letting him do to me.

So I told him I did not want to see him again. I confessed to the self-torture of the previous day. I said all the things I had not said to him all this time. I needed and deserved more. Not in a preachy way, but in reality. I deserved a lot more than what he had been giving me. I had never wronged him. In fact, my roommate kept repeating I had been a saint to him. She did not understand how, or where I got the strength from, to keep my cool and listen and not judge him. I did not know either, but now the pain was all there was left of this and I had to stop it. I told him his lying and pretending abilities scared the shit out of me. I said I could not deal with the ugly parts of him anymore; there was nothing to outweigh them. And then he said “I talked with her about it yesterday. I don’t want to lie to anyone. It’s a path I’m also disgusted with myself for.” So he was with her on Sunday! TA-DA! I knew it! Damned stupid woman intuition: her perpetual, refractory presence, taking over all other thoughts in my soul, always every so uselessly retroactive.

I said I was sorry for everything he was going through, the self-doubt, the disgust, the terrible choices… I just could not care anymore. I needed him to become a better person in the end so that this all, my pain, would not have been in vain. But I was done being the good one, asking for nothing, and standing there by his side, invincibly. Well, I was not invincible. And then, he must have felt I was truly giving up. I did not want any more explanations. I just wanted out. I needed out.

He must have known, because he said he was especially sorry that he had no fight left in him, and that I was worth the fight. He said I was incredible, that I made him smile and laugh and cry and truly be himself. That that’s who I was to him: Real. And extravagant and incredible and I wish I could be something more to you. That he truly did but that he could not. And that he did not deserve me.

I had to be my own best friend. I had to be my own mama bear right that instant. It was becoming more and more clear we could never go back. It never had returned to what it had or might have been. He was not the one for me, however much I had wanted it. I wished him well. I told him I loved him. It had to be goodbye. He agreed. So it was.

I went to bed exhausted. I realized his ugliness, his faults and his betrayal had made me better. That week following the night in hell, I had made amends with all the people in my life I still held grudges with. I buried hatches. I did good deeds and reveled in the smiles and the laughs of the wonderful people in my life. It felt great to be able to look at myself and see that I had done no wrong here. Yet there was that little resounding voice in my head: Oh you feel great? No, no I don’t think so. See that pinch in your stomach? You know what that is? That is how you really feel: shortchanged.

***

I saw his towel hanging on bathroom door again as I was exiting the shower the next morning. I smiled and put it in the wash. I went to help my friend Sam* with her baby. She has such a warm soul and Thanksgiving had helped me feel so much better that I could not have hoped for a better task that day. We ended up having coffee and I told her the whole story. She understood my feelings of confusion between caring for him and being so angry at his failures. She comforted me and smiled. We could almost touch the love we truly share for each other and both left feeling warm and fuzzy. She is an amazing, strong and beautiful woman that simply inspires greatness. I went home with all the best intentions in the world, of studying my butt off for this midterm I had the next day.

Instead at 2.48 p.m., I booty-called him.

He was going down on me and I was going down on him. I was surprised at how easily I multitasked whilst still enjoying every movement he made. I was so tired; my focus was blurry; all I remember is his tongue slowly hitting my clit as his fingers thrust so deeply. I feel shivers writing this. He had his mind set. He had a goal. I was so responsive. The delusion from the lack of sleep, overload of emotion and utter inability to comprehend what I had done to myself were all that I knew at that point. He kept jabbing, precisely, right there. I died a little bit every time. I was trying to suck, but after I while I could not do anything but fall at his hands. I was panting, moaning, and groaning. My legs were leaving my body. I was losing control and for the first time I did not mind. For the first time, there was no control left in me. My entire body was separating from my brain, in a sort of evanescent fashion. I told him not to stop. I did not say the words. I mean I did, but they came out of somewhere that I did not control. He kept doing exactly what the voice coming out of me was telling him to do. His tongue was wet, gliding like velvet, stroking me. His hands reached into my soul; I could feel it in my gut. My stomach was shuddering. Finally, the voice took control of the body. I slammed him down, jumped on top of him, swiftly sliding him as deep as I could, inside of me. I had control, I lifted myself up and down rhythmically, maintaining our bodies stuck together right where they needed to, but I had no control. Something stronger than me took over. It was speeding up; it was gearing up for the finish line, leaving me totally unaware. I was out of… out of breath… It could not possibly go on like this—I could not possibly withstand more of this. It did not stop. He was staring at me, focused, set on his goal. He was grunting too, joining me in this maddening feeling of want. I was unaware, dreaming; there might even have been singing in my head. And it hit. It hit and my entire body convulsed. The tremor consumed my every ounce of being. A loud laughter emerged from my mouth. I could hear my breath. It was rugged and broken, as if I was sobbing. I rolled over because my legs were unable to sustain my weight. I needed air… I needed…

The giggle. It would not stop. I giggled. I was overwhelmed and giggling.

There it was. I had finally stopped thinking. The man had literally consumed my last thought until all I had left to offer was complete surrender. All I could possibly do was abandon myself in the mistake, miracle, blessing, or horrible error, whatever this was. I bombed the midterm because of him. I would never have let myself do that at any other point for any other man. So I gave up, I surrendered to whatever had dictated me to give in, to forgive, to love at a price, to booty-call when really all I should have done was run. So I ran, but straight at the wall. I said: Fine, Tornado, take me, I’m all yours to swallow and spit right back out, destroyed, disheveled, eaten.

I was giggling. “What are you thinking about?” he said. “I’m not: I’m staring at that corner, I’m staring at the top of my closet’s door.” I giggled. “Hallelujah!” he exclaimed.  I rolled around, still shivering and shaking. The pleasure was of epic proportions. I was blank with bliss.

I had to stand up to go to the bathroom and I nearly crumbled. I was high, high on life, high on SEX! I walked around to get water and just felt, inside and out, like a zombie. A happy one, and overwhelmed one, but a zombie nonetheless. The ecstasy. That is the word. “Intense delight, intense feeling, and loss of self-control.” I was in ecstasy. Now, are you going to tell me what that was supposed to mean, life? Why him, why now? This had to be sudbina. It do not know what else to call it. On that October afternoon, he gave me my very first orgasm.

 

***

 

“Aren’t you going to text your girlfriends? Aren’t you going to scream at the top of your lungs? Liam did this! He climbed Mount Kilimanjaro!” He laughed. “No, nobody knows you’re here, remember? We don’t like you right now.” Oh my god. He did though; he did do it. I mean I did it. I was in a particular set of circumstances, a particular state of mind (or rather lack there of) and I had conquered my own brain. Yet life had managed to somehow intractably link him to it. Now I knew I would not forget his name, not even twenty years down the line when he will have become a stranger, a passing name, a phase of self-torture in my twenties. No, he was the first to do that. Certainly not the last, and I will one day be able to give them to myself, but he was the first. He gave me the taste of it.

 

Oh, yes, right I did not tell you yet, dear reader. No, that’s right. I am unable to get there on my own, for now. I mean I get close; I get almost there. Every time. But never do I cross the finish line. Never do I get to say “I’m gonna cum.” I just don’t. So no, the many, many, many men before him, none did. (Sorry guys!) I can still distinguish the good from the bad ones, but all of them failed me. It does surprise me that in my plentiful sexual dances, not one came to blow my brains out – literally. Not one of them had a trick, not one of them was surprising. I knew the moves; I had studied them. It is fascinating that patterns emerge amongst men, in their most private of behaviors. Yet, I cannot really blame them, when I do not even know how to get there myself. My problem is my brain. This brain, writing this paragraph today, it has second-guessed every word, every coma, every semi-colon. It over-analyzes every little detail. It remembers every single color, every word, every smell. It allows me to be the excellent student that I am, the semi-efficient writer that I would like to become. It just does not like to lose control. It is a hard thing, fighting your own self, to make space for the ultimate pleasure. And yes, I enjoy sex without orgasms. Hell, that’s all I had known. I still do. I love it. I revel in it. Every time something feels good, I get to analyze why and how: double the pleasure! But ecstasy… I just met her. She is still a stranger, and I am in love. I am sincerely hoping this infatuation informs my sanity that it is due for a vacation.