Monogamy

Well I have begun a new relationship and it has come with its own set of revelations. Here is a piece that has been generated by this current relationship.

Monogamy. This is a term I’ve been mulling over a lot lately. Early in my current relationship, my lover - whom I adore - set out the idea that he wasn’t sure that was something he was interested in in the long term. This, of course, caught me somewhat by surprise, but I appreciated his candor and couldn’t honestly say I could agree or disagree with the whole idea of being non-monogamous. The default position, for me, has been to be monogamous, unless I was unhappy or dissatisfied with a relationship.

His ideas about it, as he explained it, were more the “variety is the spice of life” approach. If we, as humans, are able to eat pizza one night, steak another, and Mexican food the third, and we have friends that we go boating with and friends we watch romantic movies with and friends we call late at night when we need someone to listen, then why not have lovers for our various tastes and moods?

Although this is a compelling argument, and I have no “moral” aversion to the idea, I’m still not sure how it sits with me. But I am finding out by watching my thoughts and my emotions as situations arise.

First, I must examine how I feel when I begin a love affair. I realized that when I meet someone, and there is depth and connection and mystery, as I’ve found with this current lover, it’s as if I’ve stumbled into some lovely cave. The cave has its initial room that is easily accessible and open. But once the boundaries of that first open cavern are explored, there are small coves and tunnels – all lovely, dark and deep. Some are easily explored and some seemingly endless – shooting through and under still waters or rushing streams to emerge beautiful on the far side. Sure, while exploring I may occasionally hit my head or duck away from diving bats, and I may get lost for periods and not be sure I can ever emerge, the adventure of the exploration holds me captive and myopic. This is where I want to be and what I want to know – I don’t yearn for other caves that may offer just as intriguing mysteries and adventures; I want to find the depths and secrets and pleasures hidden in all the dark hidden places of this lovely place.

So it’s not a matter of whether I should or shouldn’t be monogamous – it’s that there is just no interest or desire to chase down other avenues of exploration. Of course, I can eat Mexican food every night if I like the place well enough.

This lover and I, after that initial conversation, have explored many of those caverns and mysteries, each discovery leading to promises of more mystery and pleasure. This is a mutual feeling – we both are captivated by the other, even as we bump our heads on the hanging stalactites of our personalities.

But life happens. He’s miles away for an undetermined amount of time, and much of the time, through both choice and circumstance, he’s inaccessible. When he left, we agreed there was no binding commitment of monogamy, or of any other kind. This seems perfectly acceptable as we are new to each other and not sure where this will head. But the passion and connection – on more levels than I believe I’ve ever experienced – is palpable some nights in our many texts and infrequent conversations. But there is his occasional mention of yoga bodies and youth – wherein I always come out ahead – but the mention is there. He’s declared he’s not slept with any one there, but even that declaration somehow reinforces the possibility. Slight twinges of jealousy or possessiveness knock at my consciousness, before being investigated and released.

In a conversation last night, he disclosed that he still has some feelings for a recent ex-girlfriend and his long-term friend/ex-girlfriend. The long-term relationship I certainly understand. They’ve been lovers and then friends for many years – and her new relationship understandably stirs feelings of loss in him. But the admission of his feelings for this recent ex-lover hit a little harder. This, I believe, is partly due to the fact that it is so fresh, but mostly because she is not at all like me. Where I am light and openness, but deep and thoughtful and emotionally accessible, she’s dark and hidden, afraid to expose herself for fear of injury. Where my lover and I are intellectually and spiritually compatible, she’s undeveloped and intellectually incurious. And so, in her, the abstract concept is made flesh. Would it be acceptable for him to continue a relationship with her and me? Can I understand that why I may be filet mignon and pinot noir, sometimes he wants pizza and beer? (Notice which side of the analogy I come out on.)

And now I am confronted with the real-life situation. And I watch my thoughts swirl and question what they mean about me. He feels less for me because he still has feelings for her. Is that true? Can I absolutely know if that is true? No, I can’t know that. How do I feel , act, and think when I believe that thought? It makes me sad. It makes me feel less than. It makes me distrust him and myself. How do I feel, act, and think when I don’t believe that thought? I understand that he must experience what he experiences and if he feels less for me or I feel less for him because of his actions and desires, then that is how it needs to be. Then I turn it around: He feels less for me because he has feelings for her. He feels more for me because he has feelings for her. I feel less for me because he has feelings for her. I feel less for him because he has feelings for her. Could those things be as true or truer? They could be. And they are.

So what does that mean? I don’t want to change him – he needs what he brings to his life. I have no say in what he needs and what he should or shouldn’t do. That is his business, not mine. But again, what does that mean for me? Can I continue to love this man romantically? To explore the dark reaches and magnificent heights of his being? Or must I have someone who wants exclusively the variety of my being to explore and touch. This is the question of action I must hold and sit with. I don’t have to decide today – and I will see him soon to experience that connection again. And then I must be true to myself. Perhaps we are incompatible for any lasting romantic relationship. Perhaps we will have reached an impasse. But what a beautiful hike it has been, and I wouldn’t change one step or misstep or stumble or leap.

Wow - the last post here was August 2009. Now it's 7 months later and I'm finally back. What to report?

Well, clearly I haven't been writing every day and have been spending my energies elsewhere. Research, right? Yes. Research. So what research was so distracting?

Well, there was this relationship, right? I met a very interesting man for whom I have a lot of affection still. The relationship was interesting also, to say the least. He is a much younger man, and that fact created some interesting effects and offered some interesting lessons.

On one hand, I felt much younger than I had in years. My relationship with this man, we'll call him Charlie (you know, protect the innocent and all that), allowed me to feel that youthful, vibrant energy I had so long traded for "maturity." I was suddenly allowed to play and follow those freewheeling impulsed to simply act in joy and abandon. I has given me permission to explore the boundaries of my personality and to choose to act or not act on those impulses. I can dance when I want to and laugh at the most inappropriate things when that laughter pushes its way through. I no longer feel the need to filter everything so much through the "I'm 50" screen.

But this relationship also created the shadow side of youthful expression. I suddenly felt my physical presence was not youthful enough to keep up the facade. I felt somewhat an impostor in his world. Now I'm not sure that would be so if he had been more mature - he himself lives in a youthful world, surrounded by those much younger than he in much of his life situations. But I was suddenly comparing my physical appearance to that of girls much younger.

I found myself peering into mirrors looking for wrinkles and telltale signs of age. Now I have always looked young for my age, so this was a new concern. I've been blessed with good genes and have lived a fairly healthy life style for the last 25 years, so my physical aging has been slow. But now, I found myself comparing my face to those of 25-year-olds. Regardless how young a 50 year old woman looks, she will never look 25. I suddenly noticed my hands and how the veins stand out a little more than they used to. I'd wonder, when I bent my arm a certain way, if that small group of wrinkles near my elbow was obvious and gave away my open secret. These small observations occurred regularly, weighing down the joy I feel at the body I've created through a healthy diet and regular time at the gym.

There were times I felt like a circus act (he'd say occasionally "can you believe she's 50?"), and times I felt like I was invisible as he showered attention on the young women we were around. Clearly, in retrospect, wrapping so much time and energy into this relationship wasn't the sanest idea. But the lessons I learned...

So now I'm back, refocusing my energies where they should be - on my writing and my teaching and being who I really am. So watch for more here - I can't promise 100 in 100 days as I did before, but regular stops here can be anticipated. Till the next installment...

17 of 100 - Beginning the Process

As Mike bent to his task, she realized she had disappeared from his consciousness, at least temporarily. His immersion in the work at hand was clear; the joy he felt as he imbedded the drops of color into the submissive form on the table was palpable. Markie couldn’t help but be pulled into the process, even as a spectator. She felt safe for the first time upon entering the shop, and she relaxed a little into the chair. As her breathing steadied, she looked again at her friend.

Toni’s eyes were shut, and her jaw clenched. She grasped the sides of the massage table, and Markie noticed how her knuckles were white with the pressure. As Mike pulled back to reload the gun with ink, Toni arched her back a little and shifted her hips. Bringing her hands together, she cracked her knuckles.

“You doing okay?” Mike asked and placed a hand flat on her belly above the job site. The gentle gesture and concern in his voice pulled Markie’s attention from her friend to the artist. He was looking intently at Toni’s face, reading her pain tolerance. “You need a drink of water or something?”

Toni rose up on her elbows and looked down at the area under assault. “Yeah, I’m good. How much longer? It hurts like a motherfucker.” She tried to smile at him, but the look was more of a wince. She lay her head back down on the table and regrasped the sides.

“Oh hon, we just got started. It’ll be a while. You need something for the pain? I got some Ibuprofen if you want it. Anything stronger you got to supply yourself.” He wheeled his chair back and pulled a bottle from the drawer. Shaking four tablets into his palm, he grabbed a water bottle from the table and wheeled back over to Toni. “Here, babe. Take these. Believe it or not, it’ll help.” He slid a hand under her neck and pulled her head up far enough to swallow the pills and a drink from the bottle. Laying her head gently back down, he rested his hands briefly on her shoulders, then pulled away to grab the machine.

Markie was surprised at the gentleness she had just witnessed. The menace seemed to have disappeared as soon as the machine began its whine and the process began. He had softened perceptibly, and Markie suddenly felt very drawn to him. She shook her head in disbelief and again felt discombobulated. It’s as if the tattoo shop were a hall of mirrors, and things appeared distorted then clear, only to become distorted again. This unsettling was unfamiliar to Markie. Having been at her job for as many years as she had, not much surprised her or shook her – she felt at 31 she’d seen about all the dark side of humanity had to offer. But this place, this feeling, this man, were all new, and along with the discomfort, she felt a slight tingling between her legs as if something had awakened that had long slept.

16 of 100 - After the Show

The cold, bright sunlight of the January day stung Sam’s eyes when she opened the theater door. The air reached down her throat and grabbed at her windpipe, clenching and squeezing the wet warmth there.

“Jesus fucking Christ, it’s cold” she gasped and pulled the collar of her jacket up to cover her mouth. Squinting against the light, she grabbed her little sister’s hand and dragged her across the parking lot, racing for the car. Her little sister, yelling at Sam to slow down, tried to move her feet fast enough to keep up. Half dragged and half running, she just managed to keep from falling.

“Stop it Sam! I’m gonna fall!” She began to cry, the tears stinging her cheeks as they combined with the arid air. “Let go of me!” She finally managed to pull her hand from Sam’s and stopped to take a breath. She bent, hands on her knees, and coughed against the frigid air. The cough, dry and hard, brought Sam around from her movement toward the car.

“You okay, Mand? Shit, sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry. I’m just so fucking cold.” Sam reached forward a gloved hand and wiped the freezing tears from Mandy’s cheeks. Mandy pushed Sam’s hand away and glared at her.

“You don’t care. And I’m telling mom you said the f-word like 10 times. She’s going to be mad.” Mandy tried to regain her dignity and held herself as tall as she could. Sam shook her head and turned back toward the car. Pushing the remote unlock, she sprinted the rest of the way to the car.

“Fine then, you little brat. Freeze your ass off. I don’t care.” As she reached the car, she turned back toward her sister, just in time to see a pickup truck turn to come down the row of cars. The truck came on fast, and Sam had just enough time to realize the driver didn’t see her sister. Screaming, she raced back toward her, and as she grabbed for Mandy’s jacket, it was jerked from her grasp.

15 of 100 - Two Weeks In

Well it’s been two weeks now, and I have managed to stay abreast of these self-imposed assignments. I fell a little behind this weekend; I was out too late Friday and Saturday night (doing research) and had to write those day’s posts the following day. But I’ve done so, and with this entry, I’m caught back up.

The greatest outcome of this project is this: the process has finally freed the novel that’s been waiting to be released from my subconscious. The kernel had emerged earlier this summer, but it was still a bit unformed. Then the form began to take shape, and I felt ready to embark upon this writing journey. I still hesitated, keeping the actual writing in my mind, opting out of actual fiction copy and instead writing character lists, plot scenarios, and outlines.

Then I began this project. When I wrote about Markie in post number nine, Duck Duck Goose, I felt her come alive after years of dormancy. Markie is the protagonist of the novel, and had been the protagonist of my master’s thesis, a novella called Dancing with the Dragon that I wrote in 1995. That had been a feeble attempt, I’ve always thought, and the first chapter was the only memorable part of the writing. That chapter, revised and amended, will appear in the novel. However, it will not be the first chapter, but a few chapters in.

The outlines, plots scenarios, and character lists I wrote earlier this summer are morphing and shifting with each installment I write, but the novel has captivated my being. I think of Markie and her struggles, her trials, her challenges, much of my waking hours now, and she’s always just below my conscious thought when I’m pursuing other ideas. I can’t seem to let her go now, and what happens to her has become my obsession.

That is why, for most of the posts following that number nine, you’ve seen Markie and her adventures. I can’t let go of her to allow another fictional character or world intrude.

I do believe that is my challenge, however. I don’t want to keep writing the novel and putting it here, in public, as I create. It feels, as I said in another venue, as if I’m showing my cards while the game’s still being played. It’s time to take Markie and her story into private. I’m not sure how I can do this, as I don’t have as much free time for writing as I’d like.

And so lies my challenge for next week. I hope to write not about Markie here, in this public venue, but about other characters, other stories, other dreams. But I must continue to write daily of Markie’s story. So although the “real” world beckons and demands, my intention is to give this world, the imaginative world, legs and wings and heart, and let it fly in many different directions – both as Markie’s story emerges and others are discovered.

Come along for the ride if you wish, and we’ll see what happens.

14 of 100 - Spinning Images

“Why don’t you grab that black chair over there and sit while we do this. It’ll take a while.” Mike directed Markie without looking around at her. She stood for a moment or two more and then moved over to the chair near the room’s opening. It was a low-slung fabric chair – large and round with three or four small pillows scattered on it. Markie lowered herself into the fabric, glad for the protection of her own clothes to keep her skin away from the cloth of the chair.

“So, Markie, you want to get inked today too? I’ll give you girls a two for one special if you do.” He finished cleaning Toni’s skin and looked at the drawing again before beginning to transfer the design. “This should be bigger you know,” he said. “Hold on while I blow it up.” Mike rolled his chair over to a paper-strewn desk and laid the drawing on the copier sitting on the corner. In a moment, he wheeled his chair back over with the enlarged drawing.

“I don’t know,” Toni answered. “What do you think Markie?” Toni looked over from the table, raising her head to catch Markie’s eye. Before Markie could answer, Mike laid his hand on Toni’s forehead, pushed it back to the table and interrupted. “Hey sweet cheeks, I’m the artist here. I know this is what you want.” He moved both hands down to the prepared area and began the process of transferring the enlarged design to Toni’s skin.

Markie watched him control the girl on the table and shuddered slightly. Not sure how it had happened, she realized he was undeniably in charge of everything in the room, including herself. Markie suddenly imagined Toni, stripped completely nude, her large breasts exposed to the harsh brightness of the room, restrained and immovable. It was almost as if she could see wide leather restraints holding her friend’s wrists and ankles and a large band across her forehead, anchoring her solidly to the table. The image passed as quickly as it had appeared in Markie’s mind, and she closed her eyes and shook her head as if to clear the horror of the illusion.

When she opened them, Mike had wheeled his chair around the table, and he now faced her over Toni’s prepared pubic area. She wondered how he had moved so quickly and silently, and the room began to feel hot and little floaters of silver light darted across her vision. Putting her head in her hands, she reclosed her eyes and held herself still.

“What’s the matter over there?” Mike asked. Markie braced herself and looked up again. He was looking at her, and she quickly shifted her gaze down to Toni’s prone form.

“Nothing. Just drank a little too much last night. Just resting my eyes.” Markie lied and hoped she sounded more solid and sure than she felt. She picked up the magazine lying on the table next to the chair; it was some trade magazine with a woman, naked except for the ink covering most of her body, lying across the hood of a red Dodge Viper. The designs on her body were all done in the earthy tones of greens, browns, and grays, so the contrast between the hard, bright, red of the car and the soft tones of the young woman’s inked flesh jarred her senses. Markie threw the magazine back on the table and turned to watch Mike etch the hearts into Toni, hoping to regain control of her spinning thoughts.

13 of 100 - More of Toni's Tattoo

As Markie followed the artist and his subject through the opening at the back of the room, she was struck by the stark contrast from the gloom she’d just left. The room was bright with artificial light. Not a window in the place, the walls were bright white with slick industry posters of tattooed women and men placed around the room. Between those hung many photographs of tattoos Markie assumed had been done in the shop. In addition to men with tattoos covering their whole backs and others with intricate designs running up legs from ankle to thigh, there were many many photos of tattooed body parts tacked up like this place was some kind of chop shop for legs and arms and asses and breasts.

There was something disturbing about these floating body parts that Markie couldn’t quite put her finger on. She kept looking, trying to figure what seemed wrong about those photographs. She was pulled back to the complete human forms in the room by Toni’s voice.

“So do I just take everything off or what?” The tattoo artist had finally released Toni’s neck as he directed her to the dentist’s chair in the middle of the room, and she had turned to face him before hoisting herself into the raised chair.

“Sure honey. Just strip down so I don’t get any ink on those pretty panties of yours. You can leave your top on – if you want that is.” He reached forward and, laying his hands on her shoulders for a moment, moved them lazily down to her waist, brushing the sides of both breasts lightly on the way down. He kept his hands on her waist as she pushed her shorts and thong to the floor, and then tightened his grip and lifted her effortlessly into the waiting chair.

Markie winced at the thought of Toni’s bare ass against the vinyl of the chair, and wondered what else could have been there and happened there before Toni’s ass settled in it. Markie knew Toni would never even consider the idea to have reservations about her exposure there.

Working with so many different women for short periods of time, Markie had realized she had become somewhat of an amateur behavior analyst. She had no interest in really knowing any of the women she encountered on the circuit, but she wasn’t interested in alienating them either. She walked a tight line of compassionate disinterest with most of them, and paradoxically, they were drawn to her detachment. And she was fascinated, looking from the outside as she always was, in trying to figure what made them tick, as her father used to say.

Markie knew Toni feared little but intimacy. She’d worked with her at a number of gigs, and had watched the woman squat squarely, naked, on bar stools and stained sofas, never minding what her bare pussy came in contact with. Many of the girls shared Toni’s nonchalance about their pussies. It’s as if, Markie thought, they no longer cared for that part of themselves and had embraced all the connotations of the word cunt. These same women kept manicured finger and toenails, spent hours on their hair and hair products, shaved, waxed, and lasered body hair, pampered and cared for their physique obsessively, but abused and neglected the wet opening between their legs. It, of all the parts on their bodies, seemed to become simply an object, a tool of the trade. Even the breasts were more revered and pampered than the pussy. It’s as if that one part of their body was disconnected from the rest.

Markie suddenly realized what bothered her about the photographs tacked to the walls. She looked again, walking from photo to photo to check her hypothesis. None of the photos were of men’s body parts, and none of the full body photographs were of women. It’s as if the women had all been dissected and displayed exclusively as the artist’s canvass – there were no faces of women anywhere. Sure, Markie noticed as she walked among the photos, there was a neck here, or a cheekbone there, but the tattoo was the focus of the image, not the woman on whose body the ink was embedded. Markie felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up, and she turned from the pictures to the scene unfolding in the middle of the room, shocked to meet the steady gaze of the tattoo artist. She wondered how long he had been watching her.

“Nice pictures here,” she lied and kept her voice light. “I’m Markie, by the way,” she added, realizing no introductions had been made.

The big man raised the corners of his mouth slightly and raised his eyebrows a little more. “I’m Mike,” he said. Then after another few seconds of holding her eyes, he turned back to Toni. “And you are . . . ?” As he asked her name, he reached his large hand – one covered with a spider web design with the image of about half a spider appearing to crawl up from his palm over the web of skin between his thumb and first finger – down to cup the mound of flesh rising from between her legs.

Toni jumped, then settled in against the pressure of his hand, breathed audibly, and said, “Toni. I’m Toni.”

“Okay Toni. Let’s do this.” He squeezed gently and then slid his hand up to her belly, keeping it there while reaching with the other hand to grab the spray bottle of alcohol needed to prepare for the needle and ink.