"Lay with me lady
you're drivin' me crazy,
I promised you all my life
These things that sustain me
oh how they drain me,
But I'll never hang you out to dry..."-Live
This might be a little difficult to believe, but I have not always had the best luck with women. Well, not in the sense that goes beyond platonic. In fact, there have been times it's been quite abysmal.
I realize this comes as a shock. Yes, it's true, some women do spontaneously orgasm in my presence, and my rampant field of luminous masculinity does make strong men weep and wet themselves. But some are immune to my charms.
Remember, I am an aberration; being too tall, too skinny, with eyes too big for the rest of my face. My spine is twisted. From the standpoint of basic zoology, and, sometimes, the social construct of reality, I am not the first choice.
It has seemed to go in spurts, my more intimate interactions with females. Sometimes, I might have a few relationships in a row. Then, there are the times when I go quite awhile, sometimes years, without that sort of a dynamic. Both have had their upshots and downsides.
I am kind of solitary by nature, so being alone is often preferable. Letting someone in that close was not without peril. Nothing annoys me more than the smothering aspect some girls have inflicted on me, let alone the getting territorial. Or the lack of understanding when I lapse into silence, or fuck off somewhere to be by myself. There was a girl once who stated it was quite obvious I didn't really need anyone, and half the time, she wondered if I even wanted anyone.
During those times in between, I have occasionally seen one of those moments tenderness between lovers that genuinely pulls at my heartstrings, despite the fact I don't have a romantic bone in my body. There were times when I might find myself feeling a little lonely, even aching to share a moment or observation with someone special. But, I could just as easily dismiss those thoughts as thinking the girl for me, aside from having a fair amount of brain damage, probably was only a phantasm.
I can remember females who were intimidated and even queerly jealous of the fact that I lived with a woman for a few years. Nevermind said woman was one of my oldest and dearest friends, who I helped hook up with the man she would one day marry. For some reason, this was a wall to get to me, which was constructed in the mind of a girls who were obviously not worth my time.
And then my own quirks could get in the way too. Not being overly extroverted or lack of willingness to play the game. That solitary streak. Closing up in a crowed room, being content to watch, but not interact. My supposed sarcasm seemed to act as a barrier, or so I was told a few times.
Mei fei tsu...
Several years ago now, another of my oldest friends decided to start taking me out, under the auspice of socializing me. See, at the time, I might hang out with another hominid once a week, if motivated or pressed, at the most. He mentioned worrying I was getting too antisocial. There was also the fact it had been a few years since any of that kind of female involvement, and, in my friend's mind, that would just not do.
I didn't mind the idea of hanging out with my friend. His dragging me places could potentially be interesting. At the very least, I could monkey watch.
And that's how I ended up spending my time in the vampire caste. It didn't all suck. Some of the music was intriguing. There were some cats I found I got along with, even got to be friends with. I even eventually ended up getting involved with a female. My friend felt like he accomplished his mission.
For a little while, that wasn't bad with the one female. But things fall apart. Eventually, I said I was done. It ended up playing out like the lyrics to a Queensryche song;
"You're through with me
I'm not through with you..."
Yeh. Less than fun times. So it goes.
My other female dalliances were less than satisfactory as well. If for no other reason than the fact they ended up getting complicated somehow, and that's just not my scene. If I wanted complicated, I'd go watch a French film.
Sabina and I met roughly a year after my friend started bringing me out. The first night we met, I was looking for that female I first got involved with. Our respective others had once been involved, but this was not surprising. The vampire caste, like other social circles, had an incestuous aspect to it. One, which I thought made Dueling Banjos more appropriate at the juke joints than This Corrosion, Sex on Wheels, or Just Like Heaven.
So, we knew each other that way. I would sometimes bum cloves off of her and try not notice when she's get into it with her boyfriend at the time-frequently-at the juke joint. We ended up becoming friends and getting close through a joe job we both worked. I found I liked her better outside of the vampire caste then as one of its aristocracy.
Things began to fall apart with those respective others. We acted as counsel and commiserater for one another. Cheerleadered for things to work out, or say when it might just be time to walk away.
One night, at least a half of a year, if not more, from when I'd split from the one female, and probably in between dealing with some kind of brain damage complication from another one, and Sabina was in the swan-song days with her boyfriend at the time, had met to share a bottle of wine. It had an owl on the label, Sabina said she wanted to drink it with me because of strix. We were bemoaning the subject of romance and relationships.
I got into my misanthropy. Those solitary tendencies that made not being involved not so horrific. I mentioned that, given my most recent intimacies and their repercussions, I'd rather be alone, because, once more, it seemed not worth the brain damage. The girl for me, who could deal with the quirky paradoxical misanthropy, was probably a phantasm.
"You don't think you'll ever find someone to put up with that?" Sabina asked me.
"Fucking what? Do you think you could?" I growled before taking a big gulp of wine.
I could blame that on the wine, but I've always found blaming anything on drinking, other than perhaps a buzz or intoxication, a cop-out. To tell the truth, I'm not sure what exactly prompted me to say that to one of my close friends, other than, that night, I was finding myself particularly cynical and hostile towards my fellow biped. Even and especially those with tits. To her credit, Sabina didn't say anything, but instead, sort of looked off into the shadows surrounding us, and sipped her wine.
Almost a year before that, I had heard Sabina discussing the finer points of makeup. She remarked that she wouldn't even answer the telephone without it. This got my attention. Perhaps because of my fascinations with peering beyond Voodoo masks and poking at the worms underneath to watch them squirm. I do, after all, get curious like that.
"Really? You won't even pick up a telephone without your makeup?" I said with a fair amount of venom.
"It's true," she said. "No one sees me without makeup."
"Not even your boy?" I asked.
"No one," she repeated.
"Really?" I said, leaning closer. "You shouldn't go saying shit like that out loud."
"Why's that?" Sabina asked me.
"Because you might run into some weird fucker who has the Japanese pictogram for demon tattooed somewhere on their body that might take you up on that," I said.
"You won't do it," she said, and my growl and chuckle intertwined like serpents.
"Honeychild," I said. "You can either play nice, or I can come after you with a crowbar and a loofah."
There it was; a challenge. And, me being me who can sometimes get into trouble, or have a rollicking adventure, or both, when driven by curiosity, decided I just had to pick it up. Over a year later, meeting Sabina at what would become the Nostalgic New Orleans Residence, I had my first occasion to see her without makeup. She didn't miss my triumphant smirk.
"Well, aren't you just pleased with yourself?" She asked me mockingly. "Happy now?"
"Ecstatic," I said. "I told you one day I'd pull it off."
But, friends and otherwise, our dynamic has always been about balance. Just as she challenged me once upon a time without meaning it over a matter of makeup, it could be said I challenged her once upon a time over a matter of my misanthropy. I really do believe that.
Three months after I made that one crack whilst we shared a bottle of wine, I caught her in my mutherfuckingkitchen, taking it upon herself to help me cook dinner. There was the ensnaring of my hand when I returned from burying my father's mother. When I mentioned I wanted to move to the mountains, she said we should figure out a way to make it work, because she wanted to come too, enjoying my company. With my ideas of opting out, she has offered augments, in which to pull it off more thoroughly. She's expressed wanting to spend her life with me, and, so far, so good.
It's been a few years since that night with the bottle of wine with an owl on the label and me going on about being alone because the girl for me, the one who could deal with my paradoxical misanthropy, was probably a phantasm. These days, I find there is this one woman who has so ingrained and imprinted herself into my life I have a truly difficult time imagining it without her. And me, who was once told it was obvious I didn't need anyone, who it was questionable if I wanted anyone, who once said I don't belong to nobody, found myself giving myself, willingly, to her. I suppose that means something.
I have never been the type to test someone I purport to care for, not taking those tests myself. It's something I've always found petty, mean-spirited, and otherwise a bunch of who shot john. Still, it seems, without really meaning it, I handed down a challenge one night. And, it seems, Sabina rose to that challenge, however unintentional, quite well.