Friday, April 15, 2005
Maybe you saw me reading poetry, painting a watercolor in the park, greasing my back, or telling a joke. Maybe you were struck by my tousled hair, boyish grin, or carefree nature. Maybe you liked the way I sashayed or the way I ate my eggs. But please do not get any crazy ideas; I am a terrible person to cheat on your boyfriend with. Torrid, passionate, hot, blazing, erotic are words used to describe affairs. Neurotic, gassy, sweaty, hairy, will describe ours. Unless you shave more and I eat less dried fruit.
At first everything will be great. I am so much cooler than your boyfriend and he is so far away. Ha, ha, ha, ha. Those are laughs we will share. Somehow my dirty fingernails will seem endearing; holey socks a sign of my commitment to art. I will rationalize out loud (all future rationalizations will take place out loud) that your issues with your boyfriend have nothing to do with me. He never listens to you; he takes you for granted, and most of all he is far away. I will publicly state these facts for the imaginary record of our relationship, which I may also be secretly transcribing.
I will drive to see you in my crotchety Volvo with the determined sensuality of a 1970s Elliot Gould. At your house I become acutely aware of your boyfriend’s presence. You have more Kodak moments posted on your mirror then I will ever have in my entire life. There are you and your boyfriend wearing oversized sombreros, you and your boyfriend digging freshwater wells in Brazil, your boyfriend teaching sign language to blind deaf-mutes in the Australian outback. Your boyfriend sure seems like a nice guy, I will think as I pre-ejaculate on your leg.
I will drive to see you in my crotchety Volvo with the determined sensuality of a 1970s Elliot Gould.
When our bodies are intertwined you will drunkenly tell me that you “just want to make me happy.” I promise myself not to take you seriously and simultaneously promptly imagine what our children will be like. In a best-case scenario they will have your looks and my ability to illegally download music.
The next morning you will casually refer to me as your “fuck-buddy” and tell me that I should have no expectations of our relationship because you already have a boyfriend. I will do a poor job of hiding my disappointment and unsuccessfully try to kiss you. You will look stunning cramming your hand up my nose and yelling, “STOP!” I will take the bus home and stare enviously at high-school couples holding hands.
Back at home I imagine my karma turning a bloody hue. I will call you and demand that you break up with your boyfriend. You will tell me that you are not breaking up with your boyfriend and question my “light” touch. This is too much to bear. I will demand that we meet in person. You will coolly tell me that fuck-buddies don’t meet in the day. I will tell you everything is through. We are done. There is no “us,” I am nobody’s fuck-buddy; I don’t care who you are or how well you pet my butt.
The next day I will see you in work, in school, or on a hovercraft, and ask about your weekend. You will meekly smile and nod your head like I am a stranger with a contagious disease, say, leprosy. You hate me as much as I hate you. Everyone around us is staring, or at least I will hope they are. Oh well, you should have known: I am a terrible person to cheat on your boyfriend with.