The Trouble With Love Is...

*** Author's disclaimer... This is a work of fiction-- any resemblance between the characters herein and real persons living or in a slow and steady state of decay is purely coincidental ***

Three Dog Night said it best... "One is the loneliest number that you'll ever do." Truer words were never spoken. And how does one advance beyond the singular state? I couldn't tell you. My forays into that masochistic realm have been nothing if not painful and embarrassing. Need convincing? All right...

The easiest way to put you in my shoes is to give you a little basis for comparison. My version of Bill Cosby's "The same thing happens every night." It's the sort of situation one prays to never be in. To be honest, I've wished it on others from time to time, but in reality couldn't fathom that such an incident would occur in my own life. Karma simply couldn't be that cruel. However, it's become a normal Saturday night scenario for me. Boy meets girl, boy pursues girl, girl files restraining order. Or at least, some sick derivation of that basic premise. It's not a normal existence, that's what I'm driving at. Thus, there I was, coping with one of life's little side-swipes sans preparation yet again. Truly operating on the fly. As such, grace was far from a possibility. The doe-eyed optimist in me stood on the road to oblivion, and God decided to cue the headlights.

Of course it involves a young woman. How could it not, right? Age is supposed to prevent all of this insanity. Well, we'll get around to how preposterous that notion is later... Who was she, you may ask? That doesn't really matter at this point... Neither of us will be seeing any more of her. This oh-so-brief appearance is merely to acquaint you with the discourse I've dealt with ad-nauseam since I developed an interest in the opposite sex... which, given the fact that I developed an unhealthy attraction to women in kindergarten, means I've accrued enough angst at this point in my life to spontaneously combust vital organs.

For the sake of context, her name was Chrissy... not Christine, as that sounded far too rigid for her. (At this point, if the woman's name is too confining for her, you can imagine the layers of inhibition she's shed in her lifetime) We met at one of my shows, and got along so swimmingly that we began to hang out frequently. We ran the ordinary routine of getting to know one another, and we clicked in all the important ways (when you're young and oblivious to actuality, that is). We listened to the same music, we knew the same films, we shared favorite authors. We were uber-compatible. Soon, we were inseparable.

When I wasn't busy pouring my heart out with my sappy little tunes about loss and rejection to endear myself to her, we were involved in gross physical entanglements in the cab of my Suzuki Sidekick (which, for the size of said cab, firmly established a permanent jerky nerve in my lower-back). We were a young couple in love, or so I thought... This was even in spite of the fact that she was nearly 7 years my senior, and a divorcee. That alone should have illuminated the rocky road we were bound for... However, as has been proven over the ages time and again, love is apparently blind.

As evidence of this woman's disdain for restraint, the first intimate detail she shared with me when we met was a rather lurid tale about engaging in a sexual act with a bartender on the bar during business hours. She then proceeded to describe in excessive detail every instance wherein either she or her partner were sexually gratified during the span of her entire life. Needless to say, this sent up warning flares... however, we were young. These exploits are expected in today's do-what-you feel culture. Also of note, she had her hands on my thighs while she was recounting these stories. As such, she could have told me she killed Kennedy, and I would have nodded approvingly and smiled that sexpot-ensnaring grin I've developed in the hopes of escalating the mood.

So, with that in mind, one fine evening she arrived at my apartment effervescing, so charged with positive energy that she could barely contain herself. I was of course intrigued.

"So, what's got you all a-flutter? Did you finally meet a man who will mix you as well as he mixes drinks?"

The tragic thing was, she said yes.

She said it as though it were the most naturalistic thing in the world. She'd met someone three days ago at a bar-- and they were having a wonderful time indulging their sexual appetites together. She only seemed disturbed by my apparent lack of enthusiasm.

"What's wrong?" she said, "Aren't you happy for me?"

Her coital involvement with a stranger and total disregard for my feelings aside, I couldn't quite grasp that she was being serious. I felt as though it were some cruel joke I was misunderstanding. As such, I replied with similar candor.

"Oh, yeah, my girlfriend has found someone else to dissolve his cinnamon stick in her coffee... I'm ELATED, hon! Let's go get drinks to celebrate!"

The sarcasm wasn't lost on her, and yet a look of confusion invaded her face for a moment. She then paused, and plaintively gazed into my eyes.

"You think I'm your girlfriend?"

Enter the awkward silence. Perhaps she was being serious. Yet, I still replied with all the cute-n-cuddly I could muster.

"Oh, of course not. I like to make-out and hold hands with everyone I meet. I find it's the easiest way of getting acquainted."

I don't know why she took my hand to say this next bit. This kind of stab is normally administered from behind. However, it seems she preferred to try and register my reaction as the words spilled, awkward and tentative as a gynecologist on a maiden voyage.

"Andrew, you're the coolest guy I know. I really wish that I could be attracted to you in that way, but I think of you as more of a brother than a boyfriend. You're far too nice a guy for me to be in a relationship with-- You understand, right?"

Houston: we've officially lost cabin pressure. Of COURSE I understood... I'd completely forgotten that incest was chic these days. It's as natural to tongue-kiss someone you view as your brother as it is to have sex with your cousins and run off to join the Future Carnival Workers of America. How could I have possibly not grasped the intricacies of that logic?

Is there really any dignified way to react to such a statement? Really... Because my half-hearted attempt at grace was to simply stand dumbfounded and glaring, half-hoping that a teleprompter scroll would appear at any moment in her eyes. There was no hope, however, of coaxing dialogue from this foreign matter that suddenly took up residence in my mouth. I believe it was my pride: and I was choking it down to the best of my ability.

I'm not sure how it was possible for her to interpret the look on my face as understanding in any form, but she ploughed on.

"I mean, you're such a great guy. I love spending time with you. I don't want to spoil all that by making this a physical thing. It would be such a waste."

Needle and thread, please. I think we have a bleeder.

I kept tonguing the inside of my cheek, the way one would when being plagued by a nasty cold-sore. It was the closest thing to speech I could muster. The paralysis was not total however-- I could make a fist: and I promptly did so. I squeezed as though my entire life was slipping through my fingers, and I had to try and salvage what I could before relinquishing it to the breeze. She then ventured to continue with the inevitable imbecilic question that begs to be inserted in every conversation of this kind.

"Are you mad?"

I distinctly recall at least feeling a snap. It may not have been visible, but something slid either into or out of alignment in my head shifting the blockage on the bile that was steadily accumulating in my esophagus. The torrent of verbal-vomit that followed was akin to the disgorging of a frat-party attendee. It was necessary for survival, no matter how messy it made things. The exact phraseology is a blur, as my lips were moving so fast that I doubt I was forming syllables.

However, I specifically recall ending the rant with, "Causing an erection can not be considered growth in a relationship, so your measure of what constitutes a commitment can't have a very broad scope, but PLEASE wake up and realize that making men who respect you your friends and making men who use you as a talking toilet your lovers is not a bright idea. I hope at some point you evolve beyond that limited perspective, but I'm not holding my breath... My sincerest apologies for actually seeing you as something other than a cum repository."

After this orgasm of fury erupted, my knees were shaking and her eyes were slightly glossed. This must be what sex with her is like, I thought. You take every bit of dignity she has to make yourself feel better, and leave while she's cleaning up. However, I believe she was used to men spewing filth on her... just not in the psychological sense. Perhaps I generalized. Maybe I didn't necessarily fully assess the situation and attempt to truly grasp what had motivated her to quickly quell what I had taken to be our ceaselessly budding romance.

In any case, as the door slammed shut behind her I realized that I had actually answered her question...