The Bloody Doors Off

Rollin’, rollin’, rollin’
Rollin’, rollin’, rollin’
Rollin’, rollin’, rollin’
Rollin’, rollin’, rollin’
Rawhide

It’s Saturday night, I’m a little stoned and have a glass of wine beside me.

Do not adjust your sets. The interference is temporary.

I suspect this will be a long, rambling post where I spew out the contents of my brain.

Or I post old song lyrics.

9:37. It’s not even 10 o’clock. The days move too slowly. Like the notion of time itself is generating humidity so thick I could swim through it.

I’d like to paddle backwards. I can’t remember what the actual swimming technique is called. Sure I could look it up. It’s the information age, after all. Everything is online.

Everyone is online.

If you know where to look. But then that would be considered ‘stalking’.

The best stuff I write is autobiographical. Or at least couched in aspects of my life. I wonder if that’s because I find it so hard to actually say the words out loud. Worried to see the look on your face when I let myself open up. Pity? No. Disgust? No. Amused? That’s fucked up.

Shit. I can’t do it. Put what I want to say, what I need to say, onto the screen. I told my psychiatrist, but I can’t tell. You.

Which is ridiculous because this is simply my blog and no one reads it anyway, or even if they do, it’s their choice and I’m not forcing them.

You walked into the party
Like you were walking on a yacht
Your hat strategically dipped below one eye
Your scarf, it was apricot
You had one eye on the mirror
And watched yourself gavotte
And all the girls dreamed that they’d be your partner
They’d be your partner, and
You’re so vain
You probably think this song is about you
You’re so vain,
I’ll bet you think this song is about you
Don’t you?
Don’t you?

The person spoken about here will be identified by a letter of the alphabet. And I will say upfront, if you’re reading this, it isn’t about you. They’re not on my friends list and have no idea that I keep this blog.

Around 11 years ago, I fell in love with K. We met through her work. For discretion, I shall leave this out. It’s a bit important to the story, but I’m erring on caution.

She was (is) much younger than me. To say it was a May/October romance wouldn’t be inaccurate. We didn’t see each other often and to be honest it was just supposed to be a physical bond. Feelings shouldn’t have entered into it.

But I slowly started falling. Her laugh, her smile, her touch. That K loved listening to Joe Cocker after I introduced her to his music. All those little things that get under your defenses.

We saw each other for a few months. And then she told me she was moving back East to go back to university. I think we always knew it would end but it still stunned me. We agreed to keep in touch through instant messaging.

I spoke with a mutual friend after she’d left the last time and she already knew my heart. And then told me K was starting to feel the same way.

And I did. Nothing. I wanted to ask her to change her mind, attend university in Toronto. But I am and always have been a chicken shit. So I did the next worse thing, and slept with a friend of hers. Because I was hurting and I wanted it to go away. It didn’t.

K found out. She came on IM and (rightfully) gave me holy hell. It was over, if it hadn’t been before then.

Five years later…

I’m at work and I have Messenger open, and K sends me a message.

Five years later.

Five years.

Five years and my heart starts up again. K tells me she got engaged. It stopped again.

But we continued talking. And within a day, we’ve picked up where we left off. She now knows I’m kinky, so is she. It’s three days of the rest of my life. Until she abruptly stops, says she can’t continue. She’s engaged.

She’s engaged.

But this time I don’t shut down. I pursue. There are a few days of intense back-and-forth, on this very subject. I’m putting K through hell. I’m going through hell. She eventually decides; there are too many variables, she made a commitment.

I book a flight out East. In February.

We talk. We cuddle on the bed. She leaves.

I leave.

She laid her head
On my chest
As the sun burned
Down the west
There’s one thing we still got
This one last dance in this parking lot

Two years later. She and I have found a way to be friends again. It’s difficult at first, but the long distance helps. K moves out West and is settled in domestic bliss.

Three years later.

Okay, confession time. I’ve talked about being kinky. I don’t hide that. But what I haven’t talked about (revealed) online is that I’m also polyamorous. `I did tell K when I went East and she made a ‘yuck’ face. As if further to say, this won’t work. This is important.

Because three years later.

I find out she’s moving back to Toronto. I think I can handle this. I know we’re going to run into each other at certain events and it’s bound to be awkward.

But on a different message board, she makes a comment about discovering polyamory. I write a cheeky message welcoming her ‘to the club’.

She responds that, she just needed to meet the right person.

And it’s 11 years ago, and she’s crying through the computer while my heart is breaking.

And it’s 5 years ago, and she’s listening to Rolling in the Deep on repeat while my heart is breaking again.

And it’s Saturday night, I’m coming off the high and my glass is empty.

Fuck. Now to see if I have the balls to hit ‘publish’.