Tuesday, April 20, 2010

Raaaaa! (When it's love if it's not rough it isn't fun)

I'm glad to read that the Writer and I have brilliantly common capacities to say nasty things to our loved-other which, in fact, only make sense in terms of the cliche "rubber/glue" division of labor. Something like the smooth curvature of a mirror that rebounds an echo back--a haunting return of the obvious (not the repressed).

Every once in a while I imagine what it would have been like if I dated him--though, interestingly, the sex doesn't figure as prominently as it once did when I would first think about these things. Instead, I imagine these brutal exchanges of volleys--something like the boring plugging away of Civil War naval battle, Monitor v. Virginia... I suppose the desire stems from the desire to have an equally vicious antagonist. One feels less guilty when here is a sense of self-defense, a moral self-righteousness that allows the most vile words to somehow seem legitimate.

J. never does this. He has never reared back and struck, the death-grip of a mortal embrace. I do, though. And it sucks. To lie on my side of the bed, too proud to ask for what I want, which is to stop punishing myself, to stop trying to elicit some moral justification for lashing out. And yet, of course, "this hurts me more than it hurts you" is quite possibly the most insipid recourse one can make to sympathy.

The Writer and I share, however, rather reserved partners in crime--reserved to the extent that neither are forthcoming with the sorts of quotidian reassurances. Nor are either particularly eager to engage in constituting the inter-esse that weaves the binding threads of a life together. Theirs is a different model. Of course, B. & J.--aside from what I imagine would be very hot sex--would be utterly useless to one another: absent the neurotic doting, prying, praising, and provoking characteristic of boys like the Writer and me these stoic beauties would devolve into a miasma of meaninglessness. Ironically, though we are the neurotic ones, we are also the ground, the foundation, the pillars that support whatever detached flights of fancy these men of ours endeavor on.

(Are these only _my_ fights, dear Writer, or do we lash out because of this stoic refusal to acknowledge their gratitude?)

This weekend I'll be in VA for a gender and technology conference, which I am looking forward to. The Vegan and Parkaboy will all be there, and we will go playing together. I banged out 11 pages on Heidegger, technology, Derrida, and Nietzsche. It was fun, and it sorta just flowed out--like a religious experience or an orgasm. This are moments of poetic ek-statis, and it is why I do what I do.

de Milo (he reminded me of his own name, how terrible--but I like it: Venus and Marquis implied at one and the same time--the fabulously gender-bending fucker...) may have found himself a partner in crime himself. And I am both jealous (though of who, I'm not sure) and very, very happy for him. My conceit as seducer shattered by reality... really? why always the Real? hahaha, whatever. de Milo is quickly becoming one of my best friends. I am regularly impressed by his ability to get and keep (provisionally) his shit together come what may. He is staggeringly strong, and here my conceit as seducer totally inverted: I feel for his savoir-faire, I suppose. And how gracefully, how aptly he has eased me into being happy with what I already have. He and J. were a bit awkward. I am wholly responsible for this. Playing a poorly orchestrated game. I've grown up, I think, and stepped out of the way, and surprise surprise: they like each other, and get along just fine. This makes me most happy.

Ok. I need to go talk to my Old Man. (Just Dance!)

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