It's a mixed blessing, the way I am with sex. If I know a person, know them enough to open up my life to them, I can love them. There's only one person I've ever been with that I felt nothing for. I was with her for one night, and it left me a shell for days, scarred up my knee quite badly. If I've known someone emotionally, intellectually, even a little bit, I have the capacity to love them. I often do love them. And the odd thing about people you've loved, at least with me, is that they stay with you. I know that Dan emery tells us that "old lovers aren't ghosts, they're just part of who (we) are," but I feel haunted. I do, really. It's so odd.
What prompted this train of thought more or less is just a common couple squabble: Comparison of exes. I shouldn't ask about shit, I really shouldn't. But, I did. And I hate being compared to exes. I'm the "slut" in the relationship, so I can't compare her to anyone, nor do I want to. The thought does occur to me, every now and then. It does jump out at me sometimes. I dreamed it, the other day, the literal situation of the thought: I'm waking up in the morning and I turn over, and there is the silhouette of Sarah, the woman I woke up next to so often, taunting me.
"Wasn't all the sex we had spectacular? You know it was. Wasn't I available? You're never ever getting your old knife back."
I throw her away from my sight, she rises in thin violet smoke from my bedsheets. I shake the sleep from my eyes and turn to see Jess, sitting at my computer, googling random nonsense. She doesn't turn to face me.
You did me an injustice. And you lost your connection to the art world when you burned this bridge. Do you remember how demanding I was sexually? You'll never get that again.
It's a lie. I'm ecstatic with my fiance. I'll get that level again, eventually. I spin the chair like a top and she falls to sparkling grey dust. I sprint away and up the stairs, into the bathroom. I see Valerie sitting at the table down the hall as I close the door. She acknowledges me and fades away. The shower steams and fogs. I pull back the door to see Avery, nude, leaning against the pale wall. Nearly fainting again... Is she there? Is she asleep? From her mouth fall a few words, becoming more.
You left me broken again. I was always exhausted, but every time we were together we fucked at least 2 times. You've gone down a ring on the ladder. And it was great.
She passes out and turns to red mist, flowing into the steam and turning to water, she slips down the drain. She was always tired and we did fuck like rabbits, and it was good, but we just used each other. She is wrong. It was empty. I loved her as a person, as a damaged piece of goods like me but different. She'd taken more pain, that's undeniable, but we complained to each other and it felt good. Misery in company. But it was...lackluster. And I didn't love her as a woman, as anything but a reflection of my own pain. And I never told her I felt strongly. But she was the first woman I broke up with, and I made her cry.
Still, I'd never trade anything I've ever had with anyone for what I have with Katie. She's my one and only. If I was to go without for the rest of my life I'd still say as I do now, Katie is my one and only. I'd do anything to be with her, for her, for her safety, for her happiness. I love her.
As I step out of the bathroom, cloaked in terrycloth, I see a dark figure crouched on the stairs. she walks up and nuzzles into me, moving far too fast, gliding in the shadows like a prowling animal. She bites my neck and slips a set of razor blades into my right hand.
We fucked, and it was dark and satisfying and frequent. I brought out the worst in you, the worst you've ever been. But wasn't it fun, wasn't it spectacularly hedonistic? Wouldn't you prefer pleasure and pain?
I take her wrist in my hand, the small brown wrist that holds more sharp points, and I break it, and I toss her away from me. she shatters like black sea glass.
I love Katie, love her now, love her always, and wear my future ring around my neck at this very moment. But nothing fixes errors made, nothing but time heals such wounds. I know I am her's. Her life partner. Her life, even. And she is mine. But I feel inadequate whenever we talk of exes, and she seems to so often, despite being the good one. I, the "slut," try never to speak of these things. I don't want to compare her to anyone, because it is wrong, and it would hurt her, and I love her, and no one else. But I feel so often compared to, so often inadequate.
When I lay with her in our bed, and I'm holding her to me, I sometimes feel that I've several women behind me, all spooning me as one fluid caterpillar like beast. And I wonder, does she have such a monster attached to her too?
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