Typical Male, or Typical Female?  

IamWetFire 53F
739 posts
8/14/2006 10:59 pm

Last Read:
9/23/2006 8:05 am

Typical Male, or Typical Female?

DATELINE: Caught between the art of forgetting. . .and remembering



I love him in every way that a woman can love a man,
from personal to universal,
but most of all its unconditional.
If he ever left me, I wouldn't even be sad, no.
Cause there's a blessing in every lesson,
and I'm glad that I knew him at all.

--India.Arie "The Truth"




Why do I do these things to myself?

Don't answer that. I already know. Love makes us all its wanton fools.

This sort of introspection happens every single time I take a new lover. . .since breaking it off with B. He has become this millstone hanging around the neck of my love life, but I'm powerless to simply let go.

B is so larger-than-life, even his memory leaves no room left over. . .either in my heart or my cunt.

Almost two weeks ago, I did a Google search on B again. Not for shits and giggles because, God knows, where B is concerned, it's not a game or a pastime. It never was for either of us. We were both in deadly earnest no matter how it turned out. We are not--neither of us--players like Toad of Darkness.

No. Whatever mistakes we made weren't malicious or calculated. Just innocently stupid.

I've been thinking of him lately because of the work on my manuscript, Typical Male. He was very much the model for my original character and protagonist for this final draft. There always seems to be some whisper of B when I think of the Naval officer characters in my various manuscripts. Perhaps it's because he personifies everything I've ever thought of as noble and true in a career officer. His chest candy alone testifies to that.

He's put on the fourth stripe. I knew more than a year ago about his early selection for captain. Another Google search told me that. From the picture I found, it looks like he's also added another row of ribbons. This surprises me not at all.

The man is a true blue Naval hero.

But. . .

He's also capable of enormous self-deception and losing himself in fantasy. . .at the cost of great pain in those who love him. And, like so many men, when caught in the aftermath of his quixotic behaviors, he tries to rewrite history and cast the blame elsewhere. He did that so many times with me when his love for me scared him senseless and he pulled away. I would simply quote his own emails and telephone conversations back to him--my eidetic memory was one of those things he found amazing and delicious, God bless him. My first lover always referred to it as cruel memory.

To quote Harry Mudd, men are men no matter where they are. And they all sing the same old song. But sometimes, only rarely mind you, they do sing it on key.

B always sang on key.

I discovered he's got orders to Germany, to be the Naval attaché there. I was glad that my primary response is that I want him to be happy, no matter where he is or whom he’s with.

Just another reminder about that "big, big love" concept from Bentley's memoirs.

He's going to love Germany! He and his family are descended from Germany nobility. He's very German in his mannerism and of course he has that "Aryan God," look about him. Curly pale blond hair and eyes so blue the sky is jealous. Of course, having been raised in La Jolla, California he has a surfer boy accent in his voice, despite his many travels around the world. Sort of a dichotomy, I always thought. Such a high tenor, Southern Cali voice from a veritable Rommell of the seven seas.

Gutenmorgen, Herr Dude! Wie hängen sie?

He's been studying German with his kids since last year so perhaps she will finally condescend to fulfill her obligations as a Navy wife.

I'm also surprised that I still ask the question of why a man like B–-who is so very like me in his love of the Navy, honor, duty and proud of serving this country–-is saddled with a wife who hates everything he stands for.

Why ask why?

The universe has never been fair or made sense to the common observer. And God writes His prose with a mighty pen filled with irony.

This is my proverbial Kobayashi Maru; the test with no way to win. The test of character, in Star Trek parlance. It feels more like a concept Frank Herbert conceived for "Dune." The Amtal Rule: test something until it breaks. . .and I'm that something.

I remember telling him, the night he showed up on my doorstep out of nowhere--his love for me still glittering in his eyes--if his leaving me to return to her didn’t kill me, NOTHING WILL.

So far, that's still true.

But. . .the pain in the chest. . .the twisting of the gut thinking of him going halfway around the world again.

He was never really mine.

The entire time we loved, he still had one foot firmly shackled by his own demons, his own past, pulling him back into that other world. A past he couldn't find the strength to surrender for a promising, but unknown future.

When his mother left the family for greener pastures when he was 10, she set in motion a cascade of events like a rock tossed into a calm pool. More than 3 decades later, the ripples are still rolling outward. She robbed B of something essential; the ability to trust that he deserves to be happy. And, tragically enough, it effected only him. His brother and father both found their own happiness after making a mistake with their first wives. And despite their loving counsel for him to do the same. . .he remains chained to his own self-made rut in the road of life.

He once quoted to me the saying about every person one meets in a lifetime comes into your world for a reason, a season or a lifetime. Of course, I had hoped to be his "lifetime." He easily relegated me to being a "reason," at first, in his typically self-deceiving way. "To help me get back with my ex-wife."

Yes, Faithful Reader. He actually told me that after he'd shattered my heart, my life and my world. He soon discovered that wasn't it and after many months of silence, he returned. Now I was his "season" before he transferred to San Diego. Oh, but he couldn’t divorce the wife again.

And I couldn't let him tear me apart a second time, so I did what I had to do to save myself. I told him the very things I knew would break his heart and send him away forever. And if I'm good at nothing else, Faithful Reader, I am a gifted wordsmith. I dissected his heart and his love for me like a surgeon excises a tumor. Clean, precise and cold as ice.

I cried the entire time I wrote that letter. I still cry when I think of the words I said. Words I knew I could never, ever take back, even as I wrote them.

I tried to think of it as freeing the both of us from a cycle of love and pain we could never escape otherwise. Whether or not that’s actually what happened, I’ll never know.

Did I let my Christian fear of hell make me send him away? Or was it my own pain of being cheated on so profligately by Toad of Darkness that made me say no to adultery with B? I honestly don't know; me, who is always so good at seeing the worst in myself and criticizing myself mercilessly.

B was the whole package, tied up neatly with a gorgeous red bow. At least to me. I often told him–-and to this day it is still true for me–-it was as if God reached into my heart and soul, into my most secret and cherished dreams and prayers, and crafted the other half of myself; the male soul who completed my female soul. I have never had that overwhelming connection with anyone. I don't expect to ever again. I don't think love like that can happen more than once.

That used to bother me, but since reading Bentley's memoir, it doesn’t. Not really.

Big, big love.

Can a love like that really exist in the real world? With all the little shocks and indignities we all have to endure?

A love for the ages. . .that's what he called it.

Even so. . .it's over. Long over.

But he's there in those most intimate of moments, or at least afterward. His memory taunting, reminding me that it will never be like it was with him, not even sex.

It makes me want to run screaming, tearing out my hair. Anything to make the thought go away.

Let me fuck in peace. Let me learn to trust and to care again. . .please. I'm not asking to love again. Just for the hold he has on me to loosen and let me breathe. I thought it had, but now. . .the day after, as it were, that memory awoke beside me this morning. . .in the room that was his bedroom before it was mine, in this place that was his home before it was mine.

And the shame of having to question myself; if he came tomorrow, would I have the strength to send him away, or would time dull my resolve and would I, upon bended knee, become his whore?

Like how many licks it takes to get to the center of a tootsie-pop, we may never know.

Yes, after all this time and with much conscious effort to let it go. . .he's still here, in my heart and memories. So is my love. And my hope that no matter where he goes he finds the happiness he so richly deserves and has forgone his entire life.

And I will go on in the meantime, capable of feeling nothing more than friendship for any man because there is nothing else left over in me. No man can be expected to compare, nor should they be. It is not fair to ask of them what I, myself, cannot give.

Sex, then. Friendship. Compassion, affection and caring, too. Beyond that, is the void within me filled by what could never be.

Perhaps one day, though, while I’m not even thinking about it, I’ll find my own happiness.



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