just bad timing

Tag: book

  • Book Two, Chapter Two – Change is Hard

    “I have to be mindful of the intention I’m gonna set for myself this year, it might just come true.” January, 2018

    Those are the words that ended my last post, the sad, whiney and impatient rant from six months ago. Remember the one where I blamed the world for my luck and then finally came to my senses asking: “Or am I the impossible girl?”

    Well, because life changes but not that much, I am back at my keyboard, with an iced coffee and my head full of questions for my heart. To you my dear reader, it is very important for me to say: I know I suck and I’m sorry. The last story I told you that wasn’t to promote something was… well, it was the Wolves in July 2017, basically a year ago.

    I guess I can’t blame myself for not giving you a lot this year, since I did give you 300 pages to digest… This is why I have to tell you another super important thing: Thank you. Thank you so so so much for reading them and sharing your lives with me. You are the coolest crew out there, my #jbt ride or die.

    Where do we go from here?

    I think I have figured out why I’m so scared to write anything. Every single wish I wrote down since the Wolves, has happened. Every thought or doubt as to why, or how, or when… was answered somehow. I’ve made these situations happen. Somehow.

    I’m just afraid now.

    Consciously, I’m afraid to write shit. I am afraid you’ll read the book, which is fantastic thanks to years of work, millions of re-writes and an incredible editor. And then what if you read this and go WTF Christine?

    Subconsciously, it’s a much, much bigger fear. It’s the fear of changes.

    I’ve been delving into my own consciousness and analysing my reactions to change since a few mind-boggling interactions on my podcast. But, the reality is, that in the back of my head, little Christine is still at the center, thinking: Oh my fucking god, I’m moving back to Vancouver, what if the big bad wolf gets me?

    I’m not referring to Liam, god knows where he is (certainly not in Vancouver) and he doesn’t scare me anymore. I’m referring to stability, to paid work, to paying bills, to sustaining sedentary relationships.

    The contradictions inside me can be overwhelming at times. On the one hand, I’m so exhausted of moving around. The things I’m most looking forward to are having my own bed and going to dance classes. On the other hand, those same things could mean that I might to have to stick to one place, potentially one group of friends, potentially one person, potentially one self. Obviously none of the above is true. Everything is moveable and there is tremendous change to be had in a daily routine. But the anxiety, the anxiety of the moment before the leap: it’s great and grand and perverse. 

    My little heart might just catch a break, and be soothed, even if just a little. That reminds me, it’s been a while since I’ve told you about my little heart, hasn’t it? Well, it’s not come off the rollercoaster. Once the meaningless flings got repetitive, the mind just got a little better at spotting potential. Let’s do this, then. Let me share with you four love letters, that I could have sent, over the last year since the Wolves. Some of these people you’ve had glimpses of, unbeknownst to you, across my writing. Some of them you’re about to meet. I don’t know which stories I’ll tell you for sure, but these letters will have to do for now. This is what I’m ready to share. Bottom line for today is: love is everywhere.

    Sometimes when you reach out, you can almost touch it.

     

    ***

    A.

    All it took was one look at me for you to say “I’m gonna marry you one day.” I puffed of course. I laughed at the ridiculousness of you, and your cute eyes. I turned to Mike with laughter in mine. He was thoroughly enjoying seeing you stare at me in disbelief, as if I was the greatest thing since sliced bread. I looked like shit if you ask me. I had just finished Cannes and couldn’t be fucked with my appearance. White T, jean shorts, hair in a bun and a touch of mascara for good measure. Still. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” you said, still not taking your eyes off of me.

    I thanked you, perfect stranger, for the confidence boost and carried on catching up with Mike. He was telling me about this broad he fucked, turning and tossing her in the air in this acrobatic coitus he was so very proud of. “She weighs like 70 pounds, that’s nothing to be proud of hun. I could throw her around with one arm. Do that with me one day, then you can show off,” I chuckled to myself. Without me noticing that you’d heard me, you managed to slide your arm under me, throw me over your shoulder and take me away… We laughed so hard at you trying to bench me, that we fell down. As I stood back up and handed you my hand, I blushed looking at you with a strangely familiar compassion overtaking my stomach.

    And then you left into the night and onto the ocean, never to be seen again.

    Until that message shone on my screen, a whole year later…

    ***

    D.

    We had six glasses of rosé on a Parisian street corner. I didn’t even know anything about you, other than your tattoos looked good in your Tinder photos. Before I got to the bistro, I was quite worried it was going to be a total bust. It was the biggest Tinder gamble I’d ever taken, but for some reason my gut said: “Go.”  I tossed and turned on my way there, almost turning back. But you were a dream. You were a perfect dream, sitting across from me gesturing passionately. My Parisian time travel, to the seventies and Moroccan deserts. To music concerts we would never go to, and trips we would never take. We shared 24 hours of sun, silence and love that gave us both a boost. I sang as you strung on your guitar, naked on the floor of your Montmartre studio, with candles and wine. It seriously was like a movie. You stroked my leg, looking at me through the cloud of thick smoke emanating from your joint. I puffed on my super slims, high on music and your touch. We enjoyed the unlikeliness of good timing. Things just fell into place that day. You took me to the metro, and French kissed the breath out of me.

    We made plans, perhaps knowing deep down they would never come true. That’s what fantasies are for, aren’t they? Dreaming.

    ***

    J.

    You already know what I think about our story. I think you also know that it’s over. You made me feel so good, so loved, so accepted. You never batted an eye at my ridiculousness, at my free spirit. Not even when it went against all of your beliefs, and everything you wished for from me. You never wanted to tame me, or censor me. But you put me on a pedestal. It’s like you wanted to persuade me you weren’t good enough. You are. I’m just not the one for you. I will never be happy in the life that will make you happy. And that’s ok. Some places will always be ours, and some words will always make me think of you. The perfect date will forever be ours to keep. This trip, it will be ours to remember, as unlikely as it always was. You were just as crazy as me for a minute.

    You will always be the one who made me understand that glimpses of happiness are just that. They are for taking, for enjoying, for embracing and living fully. Because life is short and honeymoons are just that: periods of time where everyone is pleased about something new.

    Thank you for the kisses and the cuddles. Maybe one day I will write our story, and let the world in on your generosity. Maybe one day, I’ll be ready to tell you what I truly felt when you held on tight at the airport. Fear, fear that I would never be the girl who stays. Fear that I would never see the really good men. Fear that I was fucking up. I just couldn’t help but feel like we came from different planets, and the stars aligned just for a minute, and then continued on their respective paths.

    For now, let me say, you are a good man. One day, someone will be very lucky to have you. Keep being vulnerable and open, you are special.

    ***

    V.

    I seriously don’t even know if I have the strength to type this story. You are the person who gave me the ending I was looking for, only to end it in the worst way possible. I more than likely needed it, so I have a hard time holding a grudge. I’m still confused over the meaning of you. I will likely know what it was all about whenever I bump into you again. Somehow I think I will.. I might not. The details of our story live in my notes, scribbled with infatuation… The intoxication was maximal; there was nothing casual about you. It was toxic addiction. That’s funny because you actually made me sick. You gave me more than I bargained for and I got burned. It happens, doesn’t it? I guess it has to, especially to me. You burned me, but we were reckless. It was quick, thankfully. The universe had mercy on me. But that bridge, those songs, will always remind me of you. I think the fact that we ended bitterly hinders my ability to process the meaning behind us. I can’t say that I will fondly think of you or that you were worth it… Because I don’t think so. 

    Yet you’re still there, like the night that looms over the morning, just before dawn. Maybe you’re the moon and I’m waiting for the sun. I just got confused after many dark nights. Thank you for not letting it go on, thank you for countering my crazy. I needed that, but I would never have had the strength to make it happen. I wasn’t fully myself yet, and for that I’m sorry.

    ***

    A.

    I don’t know why I’m lumping your story with theirs… It’s not over our story. It’s just getting started. I guess you happened a year ago, so you started all of this. Your timing is neither dreamlike, not nightmarish. Your crazy exceeds mine, seems to always have had. I don’t actually know you though. I am discovering the idea of you, and therefore I think these love letters, they come from you. You are making me face it all, unbeknownst to you. Maybe because words are all we’ve got for now. Maybe that’s why I’m here writing this. Somehow, you are the catalyst to the stories that need to come out, conceivably to make some room…dare I say, in my heart?

  • Book Two, Chapter  One – A Romance For the Wild Ones 

    He undressed me as the wolves looked on from the distance. It all seemed too unreal. I was feeling numb for days until his tongue hit me like the sun hits your eyes on a summer morning through the mist, unexpected and unforeseen. So many unsuspected eyes might have been preying. My head was hanging off the wall, while my hair danced over the abyss. My lower back rested on the big bricks at the ledge, where his head played to music only he and I could hear. I was naked under the stars, as he toyed with my emotions, with my goosebumps and my heart, all confounded by the signals of my clitoris. He was as free as I was; it was part of the thrill. I could feel my back grinding into the stones, but I couldn’t ask him to stop. It was too good. Until the wanting was too much to bear. Swiftly, I was on my knees, with his perfection in my mouth. My hands were everywhere on him, around him, inside him. He pushed me onto the concrete floor, to nibble at my neck, while our bodies rubbed against each other in nonsensical rhythms. I finally slid him inside me, as my knees scratched on the rubble. I caught a glimpse of the wolves, as my eyes rolled back into my head. He was so perfectly thick, and slender, and nimble, and slow. He grabbed at my shoulders, he clawed at my waist. He stopped to look at me. “Should we take this to my place?”

     ***

    I promised myself I wasn’t going to go out. I promised myself. I even stopped at the pub straight from the train station with all my shit with me, so that I would have to go home. That’s when April invited me over for wine.

    “I’m so tired honey, I’ve been working like crazy this week and I have to be up at 8 am tomorrow.”

    “No sweetie, you don’t get it. You have to come to my house tonight. We aren’t going out on purpose, we’re just chilling,” she said.

    “I’d love to, honey. But that’s how it always starts.”

    “When I tell you, you have to come, I mean it. There’s gonna be a guy there, you have to meet.”

    “Alright, here we go. Who is it?” “A friend of mine. See?” She said, holding up her phone to my face. I have to admit, he was looking pretty delicious.

    “Fine, twist my arm. I’ll go home to shower first, I’ll pick up some wine and I’ll come over around 9.30pm.”

    Of course, I only got there around 10 because the guys were home so we caught up, and then I chatted with the girls at the wine shop. They picked out this “natural” more-than-organic Chardonnay for me, and I was weary because I really don’t like Chardonnay.

    I got to April’s and because I knew the others already, I assumed the last guy was Sebastian. He didn’t look quite like his profile picture, but he was cute. A little less manly than I usually pick them, but cute. To be perfectly honest, I was a little disappointed. For about 15 minutes. When he guessed the Chardonnay without looking at the bottle, I was sceptical. I mean, I was already thrown to like the wine myself. When he started talking, I felt myself smiling more. He was surprising me with real talk, and comfortable body language. He oozed confidence, in the weirdest of ways. Later somehow, they all did a bit of drugs and decided to go to the bar. So much for staying in tonight. I was definitely not going to jump on that bandwagon, but I wanted to know more about this guy. I sat across from him at Smiley’s and got him talking. Very openly. Upon discovering his investigation into the pleasures of the male G-spot and his reluctancy to hiding the fact that he was supposed to be on a different date tonight, I was a little hooked. We had the most bizarre conversation and didn’t even notice that everybody had gone back to April’s for more drugs by this point. We then silently decided to pretend we were going to go check up on them. That’s when we detoured by the walls.

     It was strange, I felt like I had already kissed him when he kissed me. I felt like all night we had been touching, when we actually hadn’t. I guess the assumption that it was going to happen sort of took away from the mysticalness of that first kiss. It did not take away from the heat though. He kissed me and grabbed me by the little hair I had left at the top of my neck. We were almost eating each other’s faces out when his phone rang. I told him to pick up, it was his date. “Go on, cancel.” I teased. When I took mine out to check it, I had a message from one of my prospectives I had told I might see that night. I had forgotten about him. When I texted to cancel, he called. Sebastian and I looked each other in the eye as we both told people we were supposed to be fucking that we were “tired” and “going to bed”. It was such a turn-on, the blatant honesty between us. It’s a little fucked up that I felt special that I was given the curtesy of truth whilst accepting the assumption that all the others got lies. It made me feel good in a way that we both felt it was special enough to tell each other we were liars, in demonstration.

     Because I couldn’t bring anyone back to the house, I had to be creative. When I hung up, he was still talking to her. So I kissed his neck, stroking his arms, grabbing his ass, hovering my hand past his zipper. He pulled at my hair and kissed me passionately when he hung up. He took my hand in his, and motioned me to take a walk with him. So we strolled around the walls, and where the pathway is usually closed, it was magically open that night. The buildings up above would be the witnesses to our wilderness, as the unsuspecting strangers walked under us, past the bridge to the port. I didn’t even know he had a place until my knees were officially broken, and my head was fucked up from the art installation that had sprung up around town. The artist had placed random black sculptures of wild animals everywhere around town; it was incredibly spooky. When we euphorically walked back to his, I couldn’t believe the sweetness in him. It almost didn’t make sense, and that’s what he was running on. The total understanding, the likeness of our beings, but the chaos and the madness that reigned. I had to have more, I had to know more.

    The passions were soaring. Before the door was even shut, our clothes had flown off. We did it everywhere in his house. We fell off the sofa and continued climbing each other on the floor, contorted between the couch and the glass door that led onto the patio, where we later smoked, seeking each other out in the darkness. There was this silent, unbreakable, unwavering tension when we looked at each other. It was almost like hunger. We broke his bed, and swam in our puddles of sweat. He promised to teach me yoga one day. I promised we would dance one night. A few hours later, I couldn’t hide the bruises under last night’s clothes at work. A few days later, we would drink wine on the walls, feeling the beats of our hearts speed up as we played with the space between our bodies. I was soaking wet for hours, from his words in my ears, from his kisses on my neck, his hands off of my body. The touch was one of real intimacy, one of mutually wanted romance, without fear. Without fear, because we were the same peas in two different small pods. The road was unsure and adventurous, and of course individual. Yet there was this admittance to mutually restored faith, faith in connection, faith in realness, faith in two spirits singing the same tune. I think, to a certain degree, that we both silently admitted that the lives we chose lacked a bit of love, and we uncovered a source in each other that wouldn’t sour, like milk and feelings do. The rules were simple, because we both knew, that rules are obsolete.

    I drank a bit of the red wine he had picked out, looking at the sea, thinking there wouldn’t be a better way to remember this person and this moment. Until he held me under the running water, so I wouldn’t collapse as my legs gave out from under me. The orgasm he gave me in the fifth and final hour of our bodies speaking in tongues, it shook me. It was the small, subtle noises of his pleasure, the bruises on my ass cheeks, and the strength with which he pulled my hair, combined with the wetness of the shower, that took me out. If there are no further memories to be had with him, then he will always be the one suspended in time and space, the one that made me feel like I was flying, or falling, never quite tied to gravity. The big bang I needed, to finish the last chapter, and start with a whole new book, where timing would be irrelevant.