A mother's son has left me sheer

I've got this kinda backed-up feeling, like a blockage in my brain.

Makes me not want to write right now... but that's probably a sign of needing to.

Any excuse to write, I suppose.

The Artesia house, my Wednesday couch, home to my long-time friend, her husband, and their four-year-old girl, home to the long dark purple curtains, the white and beige long-haired cats and the huge flat-panel television that I love to spend time in front of surfing Netflix on Demand... well, that has come into this odd state of being.

She left him.

She finally left him.

After so many years of unhappiness and frustration, she ended it.

I was thrilled and scared for her. The upheaval of divorce, of child-custody, of dividing up belongings and bank accounts, it's going to be so much work.

But she has a shot at happiness again.

She told me this on the phone last night, when I was driving down to Long Beach. We were both on our way to individual evening activities, so it was kept brief, she told me that she would let me know the rest of the details at lunch the next day. Our offices are near each other, so we meet up every week and regale each other with our very different adventures.

We met up today, at the usual coffee shop, her with a coworker in tow. Dominant male, mid-thirties, ex-Army, divorcee. He's fun, though no where near my type.

They're there before me, as per usual. I come up from behind them and say my hellos, then given her a hug.

"Man," he says to me, "she's been holding out on us. She trumps both of our wild stories with what's been going on with her."

I look at her, "Motorcycle-Blond?"

She grins at me, ducks her head.

"How long?" I ask.

"Since January."

"January??"

She's been cheating on her husband since January. Six months. I had known she was interested in Motorcycle-Blond, had known he returned her interest, but I did not think either of them would be willing to carry on an affair. Neither of them seem the type to enjoy sneaking around.

The smile continues to tease at her lips, but it takes several more seconds for it to bloom.

She's happy. She's excited.

I express my happiness for her, for finally freeing herself of such a toxic relationship and finding another with a man who delights her, a man who supports her. I've met him, I like him... significantly more than I like her husband.

The lunch break is spent focusing on her, directing my body language into a subservient, listening stance, making sure she is always center. She needs this. I usually dominate our lunches, but she is going to be the dominant one this time.

I do not speak my mind.

What am I supposed to say?

That I find the idea of stepping outside of a monogamous relationship that you committed yourself into without your partner's consent extremely distasteful? That to sneak behind your partner's back, no matter how much of a bastard he is, for six months is so very weak. That if you want to end your marriage, you should do so in a direct manner. They both were not happy, they both treated each other with extreme disrespect and I saw this every time I crashed on their couch, and then some.

Their marriage ended last weekend not because of a blow up, not because she sat down and talked to him about how miserable they both were, but because he has suspected her of cheating on him for the last several months (even though she continued to deny it), and, when she was knocked out on pain medications, he went through her cell phone and read her text messages, then called the guy (who was also a friend of his) and told him that he knew exactly what was going on.

Even though he didn't.

Smart man.

So Motorcycle-Blond confessed, my friend's husband confronted her, and she bailed.

There was more to it than that, obviously, but there's the general sum for you.

It bothers me more than I can describe at this moment.

I have a lot of friends through many different social groups. All of them are so very different from each other and from myself. But we all have similiar values. Not the same, but definitely alike enough to function, to get along.

I've been friends with this woman for almost a decade now. She was one of the only people there for me during my wild years, she was the one who helped center me when I became pregnant, hell, she was the one who took me to get the pregnancy test and it was in her bathroom that I learned I had, indeed, been knocked up.

She has always been accepting and encouraging of my lifestyle. She's always been there when I have needed support. When that car rammed into my driver's side going much too fast and I could hardly sit without experiencing pain, she was the one who filled out the insurance claim online while I laid on her bed and dictated to her the information.

She was the one who lent me her truck as often as I wanted so I could move out of my old apartment without the abusive ex noticing.

And when parties at my apartment got out of control and I had to retreat into the bedroom to fight off the anxiety attacks, she was there, talking to me, calming me down, and making sure that any and all vomit was cleaned up.

So I swallow the judgement down. I swallow my values because it is not my place to judge her. I want her to be happy and healthy and she is taking steps to get to that point. They may not be the steps I would've taken, but it isn't my life- it's hers.

Start again, start again...

Well, this is interesting. For the sake of privacy on a shared computer, I'm emailing this in instead of posting it straight from blogger.

It's almost like I'm writing a letter to someone.

Almost.

It's Wednesday, so I'm at the Artesia house. I walked into the front room to discover my host and hostess actually being civil to one another. That ended as soon as I walked in. When he sees me, when she sees me, their behavior changes.

It's nothing I've done.

It's that he wants me. He's wanted me since I was 17. 16? I don't remember how old I was when we first met. He wants me to feel sorry for him, wants me to emphasize with him, wants his pain and frustration at his wife to be understood and expects her friends to be okay with him sharing the snide comments and muttered critiques.

So when I walk in, their tenuous peace is broken.

I wonder if he'll pick a fight with her in the morning and give me another pitiful look of "See? See what I have to put up with as I so gallantly go about my morning?"

... ... ... ...

A several weeks ago, I was asked to go attend the opening night of The Birds (a German opera, not a play based on Hitchcock's The Birds"). We went to Cafe Pinot beforehand, so I put on a cocktail dress and heels, did my hair and the like. Mellow, but still nice. Dressing up, for me, is annoying.

After the opera he, of course, invited me back to his apartment. I was feeling absolutely no desire for him, even with his background and experience, even with his notable career, so I politely declined and departed.

And went on another date.

Why not? I've done it before. It's just a matter of logistics and flexibility. Five dates with five different men in one weekend, with the Sunday being an all day affair? No problem. I'm on it.

We met up in Mahattan Beach, in the bar circuit of Manhattan Beach Pier.

This probably wasn't the best idea. Normally, I slide in there with my casual wear, book in hand, and the men who look at me get an eyebrow raise or ignored.

Going down there dressed like a Manhattan Beach bar hoochie just returning from a nice dinner at some restaurant further down the coast... no. Just no. I am never going to do that again.

Drunken whistles and cat-calls, if I hadn't been on tile in heels, walking downhill, they would have been recipients of my stare that declares, "You might be hot, you might be drunk, but if you even think that I belong in your world, that you could fit in mine, if you think that I wouldn't spin your head and spit you out... you'd be so very wrong."

But I kept walking.

Met up with my date, had some late dinner... and then, then he asks me the perfect question.

"So, you up for this?"

Size him up. Odd mix of frat boy/jock turned vaguely nerdy business exec. He's smart. He's quick on his feet and he keeps up with my banter 98% which is not easy to do when I'm fully awake. (Now, when I'm not fully awake, things just get kinda... silly.)

Yes, I'm quite up for it.

We return to his apartment and talk and screw and talk and screw.

It was a decent night.

But, as events unfold, I come to realize that he wanted me not for me, but because so many others do. So he could say he fucked the "infamous V" and, in several circles, that would get him major cool-guy points.

I find that flattering, oddly enough. Maybe I shouldn't. I was hurt for about... oh, twelve hours. And then I realized I was just exhausted from getting three hours of sleep. I get emotional when I'm tired. Took a nap, got up, and I was fine. Mostly fine. Annoyed, but no longer hurt. Felt mildly rejected, but I got over it fairly fast. The sex was fun, but not great. He was hung, but oddly shaped. We didn't quite click on a physical level, and it was noticable for both of us.

Reminds me of that line from Jeanette Winterson's The Passion.

"You play. You win. You play. You lose. You play."

And I do.

... ... ... ...

I think GV8 is going to pop the question. The "relationship question".

I can't.

I refuse to get into a relationship while I'm still so mentally unhealthy, while I still have so many unresolved issues and damages. I need to focus on myself and understanding my core drama so I can deal with it and become a better, healthier me.

I'm concerned that he might not want me to go swinging with him if we aren't in a relationship. He's emotionally monogamous. He probably wants that security of me returning home with him. I would not be so rude to go home with someone else/another couple.

I do like him. I truly do. He's great. He's very driven, extremely experienced, bright, and totally without self-consciousness. Watching him interact with people, watching how he controls and observes while still remaining charismatic and bonding with his audience, it's wonderful.

I don't think he's for me.

Every so often, I'll run across those guys.

Those guys that I will lock eyes with and suddenly I'll know them. I'll know everything but their name and history. We vibrate. We draw towards each other like magnets, impending storm. Something almost always gets in the way.

I want that chemistry. I want that knowing, that internal vibration that makes me want to rub up against them in every way I can.

I'll find one of them about every year and a half.

It's a delight. It's the prize in my crackerjack box.

I want one of them. I want to be with someone with that insane, instant chemistry.

Until then...

You play. You win. You play. You lose. You play.

Wednesdays

She tells me when she denies him sex, he cries.

He will go out of their bedroom, lay on the floor in their daughter's room, and cry.

She tells me sometimes she'll give him a pity fuck, but she always feels disgusting afterwards. And then he wants to cuddle.

She does not know at what point her life became this.

Wednesday

Wednesday means Artesia Boulevard.

I drive down it at night, knowing my destination is another couch. A black leather three-seater. If I sleep on my side, legs curled up, I fit... but if I sleep on my stomach, my feet roll up over the armrest.

Purple curtains, metal rods, the scraping noise when I close them.
The hum of the computers, the light from their cases illuminating the back wall.
Their two cats leap around me at night, sliding on the wood floors. Their noses search me out from under my blankets.

Wednesday means her husband.

It means a dance of words, trying to be friendly, trying to deflect his 'subtle' innuendenos. It means making sure that he knows I'm not available, but in a way that does not insult his ego. It means ignoring his desperate attempts for my attention, for female attention, with his antics, and dodging his body when he comes too close.

It means listening to their low voices as they fight in their bedroom.

Over breakfast, I keep to a corner. Banana in hand, orange juice on the counter against which I lean. It means sliding just a little to one side when he comes to get dishes out of the cupboard near me, while maintaining a conversation with his wife, my friend. It means laughing with their child, diffusing their fights in front of her as best I can, turning tension into giggles, watching her blonde hair bounce up and down as she laughs and dances in the kitchen while mommy and daddy's anger shifts into amusement.

I change quickly in the master bedroom; the bathroom is occupied. He teasingly threatens to walk in on me, I pretend to misunderstand him. Jeans are tugged on at rapid speed.

He stays up later than she does to talk to me, to flirt with me. Their bedroom is, at most, twenty feet away, door is open. I keep things light, as light as I can. Sexual hints are turned into misheard sentences. I play with words, I play dumb.

It's easy to pretend stupidity around people who think they're smarter than everyone else.

I know one of her friends slept with him once, after a holiday party, on the very couch I sleep on. His wife is aware of this as well, but she has not told him she knows. Her friend also does not know that it's common knowledge that he offered to leave his marriage to be with her.

I am not that friend.

Just because it's known that I'm sexually free does not mean I sleep with my friends' partners.

I don't know how long I can keep this dance up before the tension leaks in and I can no longer diffuse his lust with confused laughter and faked stupidity. I do not know how long I can keep him off me, how long his wife will tolerate his too-obvious attentions before something breaks, either in her or their marriage.

Their daughter escapes this tension, but the resulting stress in their relationship affects her in other ways.

This isn't like other situations I'm used to. I can't stand in front of either of them to take their pain, to deflect the anger and stress. I just get to watch and hope that what I do to negate the tension balances out what my presence adds to it.