The Wackness.

I am having one of those weekends, one we would have resolved five or six years ago with something we used to call "Emergency Cocktail Meeting", for when your life seems so irrational that you have to get it out, spread it around a polished wood bar. Yes, I said cocktails because they and the addition of a few friends, not beers, are the cure for ridiculousness--something strong that you can sip slowly as one too many drinks capping a weekend you need to process are probably not a good idea. You know what I mean though, yeah? I'm talking vodka martinis or really spicy bloody mary's--a restorative cocktail, not a haze inducing one.

But this post is not about cocktails or even restoration. This post is about choices.

Today I am so reminded of the TSG, not that I remember what that stands for even though I have searched my blog for an explanation. Wait, no. I literally just remembered what that is anachronizing--Tantric Sex Guy.

Anyway...yes. The TSG. I met him one summer mid an ECM at Amber. The correlations? The jeans maybe, the way he always wore the same good pair he had when he'd see me. The way he'd both read and comment on my blog even when it was about him. Even when it was pretty explosive. But there's something more I can't quite put my finger on--something about the brevity and veracity of our tet-a-tet, something about how I predicted what would happen between us so exactly and descriptively that it was almost prophetic; and yes, I know you're going to say that it ended that way because I predicted it, but this story is not about self-fulfilling prophecies.

I just know that I'm rereading Open Letter..., and there's a line that sticks in my head now and always has: "I never liked you enough not to fuck you." That was true when I said it and it was true more times than this time that I said it, but this outtro is probably where the similarities of now and that long gone summer in 2007 begin to fall apart. I'm not in the mood to be disparaging today, and that's pretty unfortunate for all those reading because If I chose to relate to you the reason VYNY will not be returning to my bed you would likely be just shy of entranced. In fact, your heads would explode if I went so far as retyping the text messages here.

But today I am choosing to grant a pass; you can remember the VYNY as but a talented youngling who made one childish mistake, and we'll leave it at that. I do feel, however, as if an exchange is in order; like I owe some tidbit I've previously withheld in order to keep this new one a relative secret.

The TSG once sent me a text message that was mentioned in this post and this one, but I never revealed the content. Ever. Not even to a lot of people that asked in person. I left him in my bed while I went to work one morning, and received it on my lunchbreak. I still remember what it said, and even with a few years on it I still believe that it was the most ridiculous text I've ever received. Ready?

I just walked home from your apartment and my hand has smelled like your pussy all day.

Not that I need to explain this to you, but this is not something I need to know on my lunchbreak, nor is it particularly tantalizing in a way that...no. I mean in any way. To me, anyway.

The really funny part was all the suggestions my girlfriends came up with as possible replies, the best of which was:

That's so weird because my pussy has smelled like your hand all day!

Looking back, I wish I would have actually sent that text. But this is not a story about regret.


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