The Night Train to Downtown Plunketville: A Metaphysical Odyssey in Four Acts

Act I- Pure Animal Magnetism

     Texting with you makes me long to hear your voice, but I know if I hear your voice I will long to feel your touch, and if I feel your touch I will long to taste your kiss and if I taste your kiss I will only want more. To become more entangled in the passion and the fire. You make me want to write bad poetry and flowery prose ripe with schmaltz. You make me feel daydreamy yet scintillated. I find myself fantasizing about what your masculine and muscular body would feel like on top of mine. What your strong hands would feel like intertwined with me as you push them above my head and your eyes pierce into me with such deliberation.  The way the thousands of tiny hairs in your beard tickle and caress my porcelain skin as you work your way from my lips to my neck and down my décolletage while I writhe and tense in anticipation.  You linger when you reach my breasts before moving down my stomach, kissing and licking my sides to where my panties stretch over my hip bones giving the slightest preview of what lies underneath the laced black satin. You slide my panties down my slender legs as they tremble slightly. You tease me with the tenderness of your mouth, as your powerful hands grip my sides to keep me under your control. You drive me wild as you taste and kiss me, while I run my fingertips through your hair.  I want to give myself over to you, I want to follow where you lead. But my desire is overpowering convention. I slip out from underneath your grasp. You look startled for the briefest moment before I lean you back to the arm of the couch. We kiss wildly and with abandon as I straddle your powerful thighs. My hands can't help but feel the strength of your back as I trace the length of your shoulders with my fingernails. Reigning pleasure is my only motivation. I reach back to feel the solid monolith beneath a thin veneer of plaid cotton. God damn. I kiss your neck making my way to your chest, as I slither and snake down your body. The heat is unbearable and searing. I reach the waistband of your boxers. I slip my finger underneath and pull them back slightly to kiss and tongue your abdomen.   I want to tempt you further, but I can't wait any longer. My  own wanton desire prevails. I want my mouth around your granite cock. I wrap my Byzantine fingers around your shaft to carefully unleash it from its fabric confines.  I start at the base, sweetly kissing all around its sizable circumference, working my way slowly up the shaft with my tongue lapping at either side as I purposefully avoid the head just yet. I look up at you with my onyx-lined eyes to see your head thrown back in pleasure somewhere between frustration and fulfillment. Your hips rock slightly to meet my waiting mouth. I envelope all of you, taking your massive cock all the way down my throat. Your hands grab fistfuls of my tobacco tresses as you instinctively push me deeper. I can't help but purr. I melt under your unadulterated masculinity.  I'm not ready to let you climax yet...

Act II- The Distillation of Passion is Hate

     Fuck all these guys.  Fuck 'em.  And their fantastical projections of their visions onto me.  I'm not your fucking dream girl, bro.  You don't even fucking know me.  They all take one look at my exoticism and the way I carry myself, and everything they've ever wanted suddenly appears before them as if by magic.  I'm just me.  There a million facets to me, I'm not just one thing, I'm not even a hundred things.  And I'm certainly not your fantasy.  I am real, and raw, full of faults, flaws and foibles.  You can't know everything you need to know about me in just a couple of hours.  So. it's impossible for you to truly love me after such a short time.  Guys just sputtering out meaningless words based on the amount of blood rushing to their dicks.  I may be an open person, one that you can talk with and reveal your secrets to, but I have that effect on all the men I'm with.  It's not just reserved for you.  They all think they are so special, and I couldn't possibly have that type of connection with anyone other than them.  What fucking egomaniacs.  So many times just the nature of my personality has made people think I was made for them.  Because I can relate to them in some little way, or I make a joke, or laugh heartily or express my opinions with abandon.  Because I like Batman or the Big Lebowski, I must have been put here just for them to find.  Fuck.  If people have to reach for such trivial similiarties to feel even the slightest amount of connection, I have to wonder what the hell else is out there in the world.  What is making everyone feel so disconnected that the second they find a girl with a few analogous tastes they convince themselves that she is *the* one.  The world certainly must be full of lonely, despairing people, to find such superficial connections awesome. I'm constantly searching for more.  I need an unfathomable amount of depth to be satisfied.  Oh great, I satisfy all your needs, who gives a fuck about what I want then.  I'm just here to service you, the stately royalty that you are.  "You can teach me so many news things and expose me to all this whole other world."  Fuck.  Yeah, that's what I was looking for, to mentor some middle-of-the-road, khaki-wearing, stuffed shirt so he can up his bohemian street cred, so he doesn't have to feel like such a middle-aged dork.  Sorry, pal, that's not exactly what I consider fulfillment. But who cares about what I want or need.  I'm your fantasy.  Fantasies don't have needs.  And for that matter, fantasies don't talk this much...And they certainly don't make flippant comments about their creator.  "Hey, what kind of fantasy are you anyway? You're not living up to all the unprompted expectations I built up in my head, that you warned me about, but refused to listen to...I don't think I like this."  And so ensues a  passive-aggressive tantrum in the parking lot of an apartment complex.  "I couldn't even imagine what we could ever fight about."  Then you must have a pretty limited fucking imagination because I could have named a hundred things on the spot.  "I won't objectify you.  I'll never treat you as an object...I could just stare at your beauty all night...You're so sexy, the way you bite your lip...You look more beautiful every time I look at you." Blah, blah, blah.  Shut it down, Romeo.  I've heard it all before, and it didn't mean anything to me then either.  I can tell the difference between infatuation and true love.  The only dream I've ever had was to find real love, and I have found what I sought a handful of times.  I've had enduring, fortressed love, I've had lightening-bolt strength, love-at-first, ethereal passion accompanied by the immediate threat of pain love, I've had forbidden, secret love.  I know those feelings because they are the only thing I have ever felt that was real.  I also know the risk, the inherent threat, the gamble that lies in something so powerful.   It's only worth it when it's the real fucking thing; no other time.  And the only way to know if it is the real thing is to feel it.  To listen to that obscure voice inside, that animalistic intuition, those bodily reactions.  It's beyond the excitement of something novel, of which it is often confused; it's deeper.  It is a physiological reaction, an emotional reaction, a mental reaction, as well as a spiritual one. It's metaphysical, your hearts meet somewhere out in the cabbalistic ether.  It's almost impossible to describe.  It's hard to characterize or finger.  That's the difference.If you can articulate it in so many words, it's probably not at the zenith.  And once you've been to the zenith, anything less is just rather banal. 
      I have a dark side to my personality, one that can get real low into the piceous depths of despair and melancholy. Yeah, I am strikingly tall and slender.  Yeah, I have long tobacco tresses and big, doe-eyes.  Yeah, I like more traditionally masculine music, comedy and entertainment.  Big fucking deal.  Just because I am not a chicken-headed twit, doesn't mean I am meant for you.  Do you know how many times fucking dudes have said that shit to me?  Countless.  It's exhausting.  The more times I hear it , the more it loses all meaning. The more I think they are all full of shit and the less hope I have for anyone to ever be able to appreciate the real me, beautiful, sad, fucked up and constantly perplexed by what its all supposed to mean.  Just because I don't drink or take drugs doesn't mean I don't have vices.  Mine are just harder to detect.  But they are certainly there.  Obsessive-compulsive tendencies, panic attacks, the ability to never forget anything that anyone has ever done to me, ever.  Good or bad.  I can be incredibly vindictive and unforgiving.  I've been known to brood like the Count of Monte Cristo over the minorest of slights.  I am naturally wary of people, I want to trust them, but I just fucking don't.  I've seen way too many nefarious snakes slithering about in the night.  Those terrible, odious, reptiles that lurk and slink in the shadows, waiting to sink their fangs into an unknowing prey.  To take advantage of the naive and kind-at-heart.  I am fully jaded, I am often dripping with contempt.  I can go on misanthropic benders in which I turn myself against the world.  Deep-down inside I know I am tender and sweet and vulnerable, but so few people I've come across deserve to even see that side of me.  Let alone experience at its full power. It is something worthwhile, not a plaything to be trifled with and then shelved or thrown out.  I can't be anything other than what I am.  I was not gifted with the ability to adapt or acquiesce to situations in which I don't agree or am not suited.  I can't seem to hold my tongue.  I don't do well with authority as respect is something that must be earned rather than automatically given.  I swear like a sailor on shore leave. I don't care about money, so I spend it like it's nothing.  I can be insanely jealous with the one I love.  I have a fiery Italian temper that lends itself to the amount of passion I can exude, but the pendulum must always swing back the other way, so fits of rage aren't uncommon when I feel scorned or betrayed.  Although fiercely loyal, if double-crossed, I can be equally as malicious.  I'm wildly sensitive, sometimes to the point of madness.  I am talented, but completely lack career ambition or drive.  My motivation is love versus money.  But love doesn't pay the bills.  I'm neurotic and artsy, creative and judgmental.  I am a total smart-ass.  I can be snobby and elitist.  I'm often sarcastic, but can really cut to the bone with mean-spirited observations. I often put on an outrageously tough veneer. But I am loving, and caring and long to nurture those around me.  I put others needs before myself too often.  I can be far too polite, at first, but rubberband back the other way if I feel mistreated.  I am an emotional sadomasochist.  But I am an all-weather friend.  I will stand by the one I love through feast or famine. I just want someone to understand all that and love me because of it, not in spite of it.

Act III- Second Guessing Longing or Regret

     It's been so long since I felt that black cable wrap around my porcelain neck.  I pull it just tight enough to fully experience the feeling of asphyxiation.  The cord leaves red, and purple and blue marks and bruises that approximate a much more enjoyable affair.  I bathe in the passionate pain as the oxygen drains and I linger in the memory of what fresh love feels like...
     I was so fired up before, but now I don't know what I am. I feel spaced out and confused. One second, I think I know what I want and the next I am scrambling to weasel out of that decision. I can't seem to find a foothold. There is nothing solid to grasp. Everything is mercurial and nebulous in the volcanic ether. That viscous jelly envelopes me once more, making any movement laborious and exhausting. A few days ago, I thought I was doing the right thing by talking with you, to impress upon you just how I felt. I wanted to see that hint of recognition, a knowing half-smile, the sigh of a kindred spirit. But they were notoriously absent, painfully so. You weren't hearing me. You weren't seeing me. You were too starry-eyed, meandering in your rose-tinted fantasy. I wanted you to see the real me, so you could possibly appreciate the real me. I've wanted someone to recognize me for who I really am for so God damned long. I've been without that feeling of genuine connection for years. I can't take it anymore. In that first moment, when I felt that initial spark, it was so exciting. I haven't felt even that momentary happiness in ages. The potential of the evening was rocketing my mind through the stratosphere. I felt attraction and desire and sensuality like I used to be abuzz with often enough. You were helping return a part of myself I feared I lost long ago.   And for that, I have to thank you. I wanted you to inquire about me, plumb my depths searching for even the most bantam shreds of minutia that could reveal a part of me. You said so many right things, that led me to believe you understood me, at least in part, and had the capability to learn the rest. I wanted you to know about my dark side and my moods, and my sensitivity. Because I feared that a month in, you would realize that I can't live up to that fantasy projection you created and I would be left heartbroken and used. I couldn't deal with that again. I wanted certain reassurances and all I got were confirmations of my deepest suspicions. It's somewhere after 2 a.m. and here I am thinking and writing about you. I can't help but wonder if you are thinking about me or perhaps you've completely written me off because I made you feel too many *feelings*.  I can't help that I am a complicated woman with many varied desires. I try to explain to the guys I meet that I really different from anyone they've ever known, but they are too busy staring at my mile-long legs or gazing deep into my seductive eyes to fucking notice. By the time I get them to listen, I'm screaming and crying and hysterical. Why can't anyone just take my word for it? Why doesn't anyone believe the truth when they hear it? Is the world that full of liars and prevaricators that the truth can no longer be distinguished?  I didn't mean to hurt anyone. I didn't mean to lead anyone on. I thought I was being clear and expressive with my intentions and excitement. And I certainly didn't set out to seduce anyone. I was just myself; that's my honest way of being. It can't be helped, unless I was just as fake as those other reptilian losers. Fuck that. Also, seduction implies sex performed for some type of ulterior gain like money, power, influence, or gifts. It's hard to claim seduction when there was no sex and no exchange of goods or services. There was neither a quid nor a pro quo. Ugh. I keep getting bogged down in semantics and logic loops. The real emotion under all those analytics is what I was hinting at earlier: second guessing the total disconnect. But then again, when someone tells you to never contact them again because you are a sadistic seductress, one tends to take that seriously. One side of me wants to say 'fuck you and your lame white guy music choices' and another side of me wants to see how you are, to make sure you are okay and to say I'm sorry it had to be this way. Falling hard and fast is problematic if you aren't equipped to deal with that vast range of emotions it unearths. Even with practice, it still fucking sucks to plummet from the apogee to the nadir. And whether you're near the summit or the base, know that, the trek is mostly worth it. Fuck. I don't even know what I'm trying to say with this fucked nonsense. Three a.m. free-form rambles aren't for the faint of heart. In fact, they aren't for anyone.

Act IV- Unmasking the Swordsman
 
     I can't deny your level of intensity certainly made this experience an exciting one, but that excitement can soon give way to fright. A fine line exists between them already.  "You can't do this to someone like me!"  What a fucking thing to say.  Sounds like your the "ego-maniacal control freak," you textbook reaction-formationist fuck.  So sorry.  I don't mean to psychoanalyze you, *but* if the vanilla, white-bred loafer fits...Ugh.  What was I snorting to actually feel any form of sympathy for you?  Your sad-sack, manipulator act almost worked on me.  Almost.  This is why I don't drop my cynicism or paranoia for the frivolities of optimism or blind trust. Because it serves a very important function; keeping creeps like you from worming your way too far in.  Like I really wanted to embark on another relationship with a whiny, perverse, 240 pound baby who doesn't understand how to handle an adult woman with her own mind. "I want to take your independence." Holy fuck.  Just when I think you couldn't say anything more sociopathic, out comes something like that.  I just can't figure where you put your soundproof room in that little townhouse.  If you tunnel under the complex to build a secret sex dungeon, do you lose your security deposit?  How did it not occur to someone as successful and as learned as you, that telling a girl that you want to take her independence maybe wasn't quite as romantic as it was demented and kind of rape-y?  They didn't teach you how to not come off as a total aggro-lunatic at college?  Didn't they give you any worthwhile dating advice at your frat house that didn't involve GHB or getting around those pesky "consent" laws?  What self-respecting woman knowingly signs up for that type of relationship?  One where she knows she won't be allowed to do anything outside of the house except under the watchful eye of her so-called man.  Usually that shit comes out later, after an acceptable period of chicanery and building of trust, but you couldn't even wait for that! You couldn't even be bothered to gaslight me.  Time is money, after all.   First rule of the con game, pal; don't tip your fucking hand.  It's apparently a short trip from "I'm not a guy that gets jealous, like at all," to "All guys are possessive!" You really must have been smitten to act that reckless.  "I'd rather not have sex than have sex with condoms with you because I don't want you to see me at anything but my best."  Holy. Flaming. Shit. Batman.  I think that is actually my favorite thing anyone has said to me, maybe ever.  It's so transparent yet delivered with such sincerity. Hahaha.  So much derisive laughter.  Do I look like some introverted fifteen year old, drunk on Watermelon Pucker after junior prom, with dreams of being on the next season of MTV's Teen Mom?  Because that is about the only person I can imagine falling for that line of spectacular bullshit.  But it must have worked like a charm on those middle-aged, undersexed divorcees you casually mentioned.  The ones that spend their entire day masturbating with one of those Hitachi vibrators from the Sharper Image catalogue because the car-pooling, PTA and their golfing douche husbands didn't fulfill them like they thought they would.  "I had to break two hearts this weekend because I couldn't get you out of my head. One girl I really liked.  And I don't think she will ever talk to me again now."  Oh fuck.  What a fucking self-aggrandizing, prick-ish sentence.  Who the hell told you to do that?  Your last fleeting bit of conscience? It certainly wasn't me.  I'm sorry you foolishly tossed out your consolation prizes on your own accord, I really am.  But don't you think if you weren't interested in those woman romantically, that maybe you shouldn't just use them for dick and ego stroking?  Perhaps it was the right thing to let them know the truth on where they stand instead of leading them on for you own selfish and licentious gains, fucking creep.  I'm so sorry having me on your mind pushed you to do the right thing.  No one asked you to turn your world upside-down for me.  I wanted to go slowly.  I kept repeating that over and over to you, but you weren't listening.  You were too busy picking out my fantasy football team and the ball gag that goes best with my eyes. "You've hurt me again," totally stone-faced.  Yeesh! It seems as though you hurt yourself, seeing as I promised you nothing, repeatedly told you how I felt and what I wanted, which was to go very slow, let things happen organically and just get to know one another.  You simply didn't want to hear it because it didn't coalesce with your master plan of total domination of me.  Hadn't you noticed that I never told you I loved you?  You can't hang out with someone a couple times and expect to know them well enough to love them.  Yeah, I have fallen in love at first sight.  Twice.  But I sure as hell didn't tell them that.  We both revealed it to each other much later, once we explored those feelings and were more sure.  That certainly wasn't the case here.  I think you were just intrigued and turned on by the way I look and the fact I didn't jump at the chance to fuck you like all your other dates.  I sent you home, unrealized.  How novel that must have been for you! I went through my wild, devil-may-care phase of man-eating after my first divorce, I don't really see a need to do that again.  I surely reached the pinnacle of that type of thing years ago.  Most of the sex wasn't even satisfying.  It was the power I got off on.  Another stark difference in our particular situations.  I didn't need the sex to boost my ego, I just fed off the energy.  I'm not looking to be someone's replacement wife.  It's sad to me that you've never really been in love.  Too bad.  It's a really wonderful and tortuous endeavor.  You've only felt about a tenth of that and couldn't even handle it.  Some people just aren't cut out for love; its intensity, its fire, its pain.  Stick to the beaten path.  Stick to your own kind, you corn-fed peckerwood.  Stop trying to rope and wrangle a wild appaloosa with fear and threats, white-man.  Even if you do manage to bridle one someday, they will resent you forever.  You can't win.  Love has to come organically or not at all.  When you give someone an all-or-nothing ultimatum, you have to realize that they very well may opt for nothing.
     But I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss that electrification you seemed to conjure up in me; even if it was encased in a waxed wrapper of fucked-crazy.  Therein probably lay the exhilaration, anyway.  As if I could just peel that wrapping away to reveal something beautiful and tender, but it would much more likely prove to reveal a flabby and flaccid ennui, unremarkable in its dullness.  But then everything looks dull once the brilliance of its veneer wears off.  Or so I would like to convince myself.  I wasn't in love with you, but the potential was certainly there.  I sure was in love with that feeling though.  Fuck yes.  That feeling. That white hot fire that burns so intensely with the kinetic energy of possibility and lust fully realized.  You restored my hope.  And then deftly slashed it like the 18th century swordsman you remind me of.  I forgot how pedestrian everything feels once the threat of love has dissolved.  Damn you.  Existential malaise will have to be my baby tonight.

     I have always been a lightning rod for freaks, junkies, and losers.  I am the common thread that unites them all.  What the hell is it about me that culls these nutjobs out of the woodwork?  Every fuck-up and shithead in a hundred mile radius is somehow drawn into my orbit.  What kind of schizophrenic vibrations must I  unwittingly be sending out? I get my pick of mind-numbingly dull or heads-in-the-freezer crazy.  Nothing in between; everything always in hard chiaroscuro.  Does sweetness exist with intrigue? Can loyalty fan passion? Could stability marry with titillation? Can I be the only one with such a dichotomy to my personality?  I can hardly think so.  But then where do these like creatures reside? Just when I think I have found a fellow romantic, in a clouded whoosh of smoke, they reveal themselves as the villainous frauds and nefarious gargoyles they always were; leaving me to feel even more alone. I remain an alien among the human race.

Post Script- If You’re Not Into That Whole Brevity Thing

Bob Dylan- The Man in Me (TBL Version)

     The more I think about it the angrier I get. You ruined this. Not me. "This aggression will not stand, man." I told you what I wanted and needed to embark on this with you. But you roundly rejected my pleas. You wanted the direct route, no matter the destruction on either side of your trail. Instead of the meandering, winding path of romance and natural passion, you wanted to take what you thought was rightfully yours, fucking fascist, instead of earning it. The flame didn't burn so brightly that it just burnt out, you smothered it. With your imperialism and greed. "I'm a Lebowski, you're a Lebowski." You fucked this up. And somehow managed the nerve to blame me. "Carpet-pissers didn't do this, man."  To tell me I was the one that hurt you and not the other way round. You toyed with me. "This is what happened when you fuck a stranger in the ass, Larry."  And then berated me for rejecting your overbearing, and most likely, insincere advances. "Fair?! Who's the fucking nihilists here? What are you a bunch of fucking crybabies?"  Nice game you're running. "That creep can roll, man." You wanted the status. You wanted a prize for all you had been through. Something to show off to your smarmy friends and your ex-wife. "My work has been commended as being strongly vaginal."  That's where the urgency lay, wasn't it? "New shit has come to light, man." I was nothing more than a pretty plaything for you to manipulate. "A young trophy wife, in the parlance of our times." That's why the things I asked of you went unnoticed and unfulfilled. That's why this went the direction it did. Thanks for being exactly what I was afraid you'd be. "It's a male myth about feminists that we hate sex. It can be a natural, zesty enterprise. But unfortunately there are some people - it is called satyriasis in men, nymphomania in women - who engage in it compulsively and without joy. Yes, Mr. Lebowski, these unfortunate souls cannot love in the true sense of the word." The Dude does not abide.