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I was reading a blog today that expressed horror at Mr. Wm. ex-drug czar, moral authority, Bennet. He is pure evil, that big ol' hater with a gambling jones. I liked the way the blogger just let it fly. A friend led me to the new blog of a blogger I used to read. She lies. She has a large audience for her lies. Ultimately, it is boring to read someone who obfuscates and lies.
I lie. I prettify. In the beginning there is an innocence. You don't know anyone, so posting is free and anonymous. Then you realize you are accountable, to yourself, to anyone who knows you. Then you think of the random creeps who can stop by and read, and who in their right mind wants to open up a vein for the awful, the William Bennet strain.
Blogging really gives you a glimpse into the ugly.
Of course there is the beauty.
Not the chitter-chatter beauty, but the real beauty. The beauty of expression, a random truth, the killing of cliche, the gut wrenching sharing of pain. The getting through the everyday with dignity.
My friends were talking about secrets. What are our secrets? There are big secrets. There are secrets we tell ourselves that we can't see. We are inside the secret. Secret societies like Skull and Bones. Was Jr. in Skull and Bones or just Daddy Bush? Not sure. But it is the exclusivity of the group. The insider.
I am not saying much today, but I would rather sit here and not say much, than work.
It is cold in this room and my feet are freezing.
I had another assignation last Saturday, with a new boy. I figure he is a replacement for Dougie the Fireman, who moved back to B-town. Casual sex. I don't do much casually. Easy, maybe. I am easy, but not casual. Golfpro boy emails me. The emails are dull, stiff, not a lot of poetry. He never addresses me by my name. This bothers me. It shouldn't. It is anonymous in all ways, so this is fitting. But it does. That, and the dullness. It gets me to thinking. I think about the spirited, full, intelligent debate with men I know who I am not sleeping with in that boy-toy way, cause let's face it, secret keeper, that is what this is. I have been doing this for a couple of years now. I am driven to do it. How long can it last? Am I daring myself? Yeah, I'd say so. So he plays in the company golf tournament on Saturday. He wins. Of course he wins, he is an ex-pro. I like that he wins. I tell him this. I like a winner. Who doesn't? I like a winning loser too, but that is another tributary. So I decide on Saturday afternoon, after working (three jobs at once), that I really should go have a pedicure, as it has been two months, since Florida. I go too late, and he is in the driveway when I return. It is okay, it's only been ten minutes. But I haven't showered either, and I've cleaned the house, for a showing on Sunday afternoon, and I am grungy. So I tell him I'll jump in the shower . And it is fine. I am putting makeup on, and he comes upstairs, with his beer. He points out that my shirt is on inside-out. Oops. We discuss dinner. I suggest ordering in and watching a movie. I am a recluse after all. Plus, he is here for a reason. He is not a date. So we rent "Sin City" on the cable box. We smoke, drink beer, talk about baseball. He tells me about his father who was a Marine, who smoked pot thoughout his childhood, and drank. Golf pro boy doesn't drink, just a beer or two. His father is a womanizer, always has been. I look at him, wonder how that has affected him. We talk about our past. I am thinking, why am I telling him any of this? Really, I am. It is like the sex. I am thinking, this could be with anyone. You could be anyone. Same with my life stories. This is a form of corruption, and lying. I think of the lyric from Kathleen Edwards, "I don't want to be your friend, just take off your clothes and get into my bed." And it is true. It is better when we kiss. It is passionate, but I think I can probably manage that with most people. I let go. I tell him I am going to imagine him as a marine. He says that is fine, he laughs. But it is true. I have to make him into a fantasy, cause the reality isn't doing it for me. Am I lying? Am I including him by telling him? Not really. And we are at a fever pitch, and it works, but it isn't going to last beyond the night and in the morning, we resume, until it is time for him to head out, and that is when I really feel that I am staving off reality, coming out of the besotted spell. I like his youth, his desire. There is no shared sensibility. There is sex. It is a lonely sort of sex though, and I am trying to find what it is, so I can write it here, and look at it, but then I start thinking of the creeps who might read this and I can't quite go there, can't quite reveal the flaw, the place where it falls apart. He writes that he had another great time with me. I write back, "me too" I IM him during the week. No response. He be gone, into the AdultFriendFinder ether. It is fine, but I imbue it with the melancholy from other parts of my life. J, who finally wooed me this past year,who I really fell for, a 49 year old, a sexy MAN. In Michigan, too far away. C says if I wanted more than this stuff, I would find it. Says I don't really want the love thing. Maybe. The boy, in his final email doesn't use my name. I don't have a name. I am sex. He is sex. It is sex. What do you want to do on a date? Have sex.