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When did this happen? 2004. 2005. Maybe even earlier than that. The last twenty years has gone by in a haze. But this I can't forget and it's just so silly.
Why share something so personal? So silly and personal? Because here it's like shouting into the void. It is like tagging a bridge in another town I'm just passing by. If I write this, here, where I can tell myself it doesn't matter and no one (almost) knows me, then it will take away some of the power.
And why now? Because hormones and chemicals rule life. Because I was alone for two hours and I'm not used to that. Because one small alteration in the chemicals in my body-mind and everything is topsy-turvy.
I remember what it was like before when I wasn't on birth control pills. When that fertile phase approaches, it's maddening. Blood boiling, lunatic fringe total rapid cycling madness. I wasn't on BC back then, either. And I think now that part of why I went back on them is because how I acted with you. I can't control myself and it was easier just to suppress everything in order to not feel for you anymore.
I made the mistake of stalking you on the internet yesterday. Just by staring at a recent photo of you for a few minutes I've written about half a dozen poems. And this thing, whatever it is. It pisses me off the effect you have on me, my Muse. Still, to this day.
I saw your trophy wife and 2.5 kids and corporate job and your big house and stupid smile and I wish I could be happy for you but really I just wish you would have drowned to death in all those hurricanes.
But, here I sit in that strong manic horny crazy haze that I vaguely remembered would happen but didn't let myself remember how much it would control me.
And this memory. It makes me happy. As long as I don't analyze it too much. Who doesn't want to feel wanted and appreciated and have some sort of victory and sense of rightness? So, I write this to get it out of my head. Maybe it will make it less important. More silliness.
I have read that when someone thinks of something, psychologically, it's like it is happening all over again. Not always good. Not always bad.
So...
Your girlfriend drove her pseudo hippie car. Or was she at that point your wife? I don't remember. Always barely enough leg room for someone my height in the back seat anywhere and this VW was no exception. To be at all comfortable, I had to sit at an angle, on the diagonal, like an animal in a cage. You sat shotgun, my man behind you, next to me. I always try to sit behind the driver. It was my spot when I was a kid. My dad once said that was his spot too. My uncle had the passenger side. My uncle is an asshole, so I side with my dad.
We drove into the cities for a zine event. You went because I wanted to go. I remember you used to enjoy spending time with me. I would come over to your house and we would just sit around and talk. You wrote me emails. I printed them all out and I still have them. I don't let myself read them. Anyway, we used to be friends.
Memory fades, but when I flash back to things, there is warped sadness. There were four of us, like a double date. Two engaged couples going into town for sober hijinks. I was glad your lady was willing to drive. She was occupied. And I hate driving. The radio was playing some ad for laser hair removal and stretch mark surgery. It reminded me of all the times people had told me to my face that I was ugly. I remember feeling this clearly, because of what happened next.
You turned around as best you could while seat belted to talk to my husband and to me (or was he just my boyfriend at that point, I don't remember). Your hand was on the back of the seat and you looked uncomfortable; a strain in your neck, a pain in your side.
That day I wore my red asymmetrical mini skirt and black fishnets. There were many holes in the netting, but one especially huge rip on my left inner thigh. I thought the skirt was long enough to hide the imperfections. I remember for some reason I was nervous about having holes in my clothes but I really wanted to wear those that day. Compelled. I don't remember what shirt I wore. It doesn't matter, because back then I never wore a bra. Then, I didn't even own one. I was too naive and ignorant to realize what society thinks of that. I know better now. But then, honestly, our sick society and its stupid mores rarely crossed my mind back then.
We all wore sunglasses except for you. I don't remember what you were talking about. Small talk is repetitive and pointless. Always has been. Always will. And you were an idiot. Every single conversation we ever had I had to explain what a word meant. You were a simpleton. I have always felt guilty that I wanted you so much when you barely had a brain in your head. I've never been so shallow and I hope I never will be again.
In that clown car I was sitting sideways so my knees were not pressed against the drivers seat, and when you turned to speak, it was obvious to me, you could see all the way up my skirt. You diverted your eyes to the floor almost immediately, and almost as quickly brought your gaze back. I pretended that I hadn't noticed. I had a choice to make while your lady was driving and my man was talking and you were staring up my skirt.
All the times between us there was that polite courtesy. An invisible line that would never be crossed because it was wrong. Because we were young and stupid and trying so hard to be good people. There were barrels of confusion and we drank from them whenever we could.
My sunglasses hid my eyes enough so I could turn my head to make it seem like I was looking out the window while I opened my legs a little more. I looked back at you from the corner of my vision and while you never stopped talking, you stared at the hole in my stocking on my upper thigh. Your nails had dug into the seat padding, and you contorted your body in your seat.
You said some more pointless things, and I got enough courage to turn to face you. You looked directly at me for a moment and then decided to shift, but you didn't look away completely. As you turned forward, you kept talking and kept your head turned back just enough to keep staring up my skirt. I kept my legs open. No one else in the car seemed to notice what was going on between us. When finally you shut your mouth, you sat back in your seat with abnormally perfect posture, staring in the side mirror with your hands in your lap all the way to the city. It was like someone had smacked you hard in the back of the head with a shovel.
The traffic stared to build. The day went on with little event. Life went on. Life goes on still.
3:13 PM - Saturday, Oct. 14, 2017
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