I don't sleep. A couple hours at a time maybe, but never the whole the night through. I don't LIKE to sleep. But it's not because I have so much to do and I don't want to waste time sleeping. I don't subscribe to that entire "time enough for rest after you're dead" philosophy. I am desperate for sleep. But when I feel it creeping up on me, I fight it. When I do slip into unconsciousness, I do so with all the lights on, the TV on, my laptop in my lap.
I haven't slept the entire night through since 1993. Something happened that summer, something bad. And 8 times out of 10, when I sleep, it happens all over again in my nightmares.
It was the kind of thing that made it impossible for me to be alone in the same room with a guy for months afterwards. Much less think of kissing one.
The first person I kissed after that summer was an ex-boyfriend of mine. I wasn't in love with him. I wasn't even attracted to him anymore. But I kissed him because I knew him and I knew he was safe.
And while I hope that one day soon I'll have a different best first kiss story to tell, I'm glad I have this one. Because it was the one that made me think everything could be ok again.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Sunday, February 3, 2008
2.1
Your question seems designed to remind people of a more innocent time. Of course, the fact that I think so might be far more telling of my history, than of your intentions.
Sexually experienced adults meet, and if the attraction is mutual, they have sex. The kiss is just something that happens along the way.
But to think of a kiss as something that can stand on its own... It seems like anticipation has to be a major element of it. And anticipation requires waiting, which speaks of relative innocence to me.
And for that, I'd have to reach into the distant past. I was in my mid 30s, newly divorced from my first husband. I had just received the official paperwork that morning and I was celebrating with champagne - it is the appropriate beverage with which to both start and end marriages.
I was with a few friends at my club when this child approached us. I found out later that he was 22. Beautiful, cocky, sweet. You know the type - lost his virginity to his babysitter before he was 13, screwed his way through college, ready at the drop of a hat to fall in love.
I wasn't entirely cavalier about my divorce then - that would come with subsequent ex-husbands. So I let the child buy me drinks and then I left, alone.
A week later, I went back and there he was. Apparently he'd shown up every night hoping to see me again. Absurd. Sweet. But the fact that he was closer in age to my son than to me made it impossible to take him seriously.
But the impossible has a way of happening all the time, doesn't it.
After enough of these "accidental" encounters, I started expecting to see him. And one evening, I let him walk me home. I said good night to him outside my door and let him kiss me. He wasn't as clumsy as I thought he'd be. Quite the contrary actually. But that wasn't what made an impression. I had forgotten how sweet youthful flesh could be. Eager, firm, tender.
I felt like quite the carnivore. I felt like a man.
Sexually experienced adults meet, and if the attraction is mutual, they have sex. The kiss is just something that happens along the way.
But to think of a kiss as something that can stand on its own... It seems like anticipation has to be a major element of it. And anticipation requires waiting, which speaks of relative innocence to me.
And for that, I'd have to reach into the distant past. I was in my mid 30s, newly divorced from my first husband. I had just received the official paperwork that morning and I was celebrating with champagne - it is the appropriate beverage with which to both start and end marriages.
I was with a few friends at my club when this child approached us. I found out later that he was 22. Beautiful, cocky, sweet. You know the type - lost his virginity to his babysitter before he was 13, screwed his way through college, ready at the drop of a hat to fall in love.
I wasn't entirely cavalier about my divorce then - that would come with subsequent ex-husbands. So I let the child buy me drinks and then I left, alone.
A week later, I went back and there he was. Apparently he'd shown up every night hoping to see me again. Absurd. Sweet. But the fact that he was closer in age to my son than to me made it impossible to take him seriously.
But the impossible has a way of happening all the time, doesn't it.
After enough of these "accidental" encounters, I started expecting to see him. And one evening, I let him walk me home. I said good night to him outside my door and let him kiss me. He wasn't as clumsy as I thought he'd be. Quite the contrary actually. But that wasn't what made an impression. I had forgotten how sweet youthful flesh could be. Eager, firm, tender.
I felt like quite the carnivore. I felt like a man.
2.0
Our families knew each other well. It was expected that we marry. He was very handsome and popular with the girls, but I thought he wasn't a serious person. He laughed too much.
One night when it was raining and very cold, I was home and sitting by the window, brushing my hair. When I was a young girl, my hair was even thicker than yours is now and was very beautiful. Bring me my brush and sit here, I will brush your hair. You should brush it often to keep it beautiful.
I saw him walk down the street in the rain. Although it was cold, he wore only a thin coat and his hands were in the pockets to keep them warm.
I couldn't see his face clearly, but I knew it was him from the way he walked, and from his coat.
It was then that I thought he could be a serious person.
When we kissed for the first time, he was serious, and I was glad of it. Later, after he died, I wished he had laughed more. Now look at your hair, see how shiny it is. You should brush it often to keep it beautiful.
One night when it was raining and very cold, I was home and sitting by the window, brushing my hair. When I was a young girl, my hair was even thicker than yours is now and was very beautiful. Bring me my brush and sit here, I will brush your hair. You should brush it often to keep it beautiful.
I saw him walk down the street in the rain. Although it was cold, he wore only a thin coat and his hands were in the pockets to keep them warm.
I couldn't see his face clearly, but I knew it was him from the way he walked, and from his coat.
It was then that I thought he could be a serious person.
When we kissed for the first time, he was serious, and I was glad of it. Later, after he died, I wished he had laughed more. Now look at your hair, see how shiny it is. You should brush it often to keep it beautiful.
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Frame 1
She shut the laptop and pushed it away from her with a sigh.
"How much did you get done?" I asked her.
"Just seven. It's hard," she rubbed her eyes. "It's one thing to listen to them and to jot down notes, and it's another entirely to try to recreate them. I think all the stories just ending up sounding like it's me, as if they're all MY best first kiss stories."
She got up and stretched and started taking off her clothes, still talking. "I start writing and I'm scared that I can't get it right because I don't really GET how some of them were feeling. But then by the end I feel I do understand." She stepped out of her pants. "And I don't know if that means I was successful, or if I changed it somehow." Rocking back and forth on her feet, she continued, "some of the stories... I don't know that I WANT to understand them. Know what I mean?" She sat to pull off her socks and then stood up naked, her clothes on the floor where she dropped them. "And the last one - I had to try to sound like a guy."
She was still muttering to herself as she went into the bathroom. "I'm going to take a bath," she called out.
"You could ask me to read it, you know," I told her. There was no answer. "Kate? Did hear me?"
"What? Max, did you say something?" I heard her call out from the bathroom.
"You could..." I paused. I had already lost this battle. Her girlfriends read every sentence she wrote, practically in real time. But she looked at me with horror whenever I suggested that she show anything to me. "You going to pick up your clothes?" I had to yell, to be heard over the running water.
Her head appeared in the doorway and she smiled. "Well, I was thinking I'd just put all the same shit back on again." She crossed her eyes at me before disappearing again and I shook my head.
I checked my voicemail, finished the email I was writing and sent it along its way. I got up and walked by the bathroom. I could hear her singing. I picked up her clothes while "let me entertain you... let me make you smile" drifted out from under the door. It was late and I had an early meeting the next morning. She'd be awake for hours yet so I put her clothes in the hamper, draped a robe over the chair next to the bathroom for her to find, and went to bed.
"How much did you get done?" I asked her.
"Just seven. It's hard," she rubbed her eyes. "It's one thing to listen to them and to jot down notes, and it's another entirely to try to recreate them. I think all the stories just ending up sounding like it's me, as if they're all MY best first kiss stories."
She got up and stretched and started taking off her clothes, still talking. "I start writing and I'm scared that I can't get it right because I don't really GET how some of them were feeling. But then by the end I feel I do understand." She stepped out of her pants. "And I don't know if that means I was successful, or if I changed it somehow." Rocking back and forth on her feet, she continued, "some of the stories... I don't know that I WANT to understand them. Know what I mean?" She sat to pull off her socks and then stood up naked, her clothes on the floor where she dropped them. "And the last one - I had to try to sound like a guy."
She was still muttering to herself as she went into the bathroom. "I'm going to take a bath," she called out.
"You could ask me to read it, you know," I told her. There was no answer. "Kate? Did hear me?"
"What? Max, did you say something?" I heard her call out from the bathroom.
"You could..." I paused. I had already lost this battle. Her girlfriends read every sentence she wrote, practically in real time. But she looked at me with horror whenever I suggested that she show anything to me. "You going to pick up your clothes?" I had to yell, to be heard over the running water.
Her head appeared in the doorway and she smiled. "Well, I was thinking I'd just put all the same shit back on again." She crossed her eyes at me before disappearing again and I shook my head.
I checked my voicemail, finished the email I was writing and sent it along its way. I got up and walked by the bathroom. I could hear her singing. I picked up her clothes while "let me entertain you... let me make you smile" drifted out from under the door. It was late and I had an early meeting the next morning. She'd be awake for hours yet so I put her clothes in the hamper, draped a robe over the chair next to the bathroom for her to find, and went to bed.
1.5
Christ, girl. You ask the most f*cked up questions.
Alright.
I was in NYC on business about... 5 years ago. I had just broken up with my girlfriend. Why? Shit. I guess it was because she wanted to get married, have kids. No, I have nothing against marriage. I AM married now. Two kids. Thanks. But back then... it just wasn't the right time.
So a buddy of mine and his wife were going to a cocktail party and they made me come along. Yes, I suppose she was trying to set me up with someone - she introduced me to every single woman there.
What? It was fine, the women were attractive enough.
My friend's wife is a violinist and so there were a lot of musicians at this party. Great apartment. Piano in the living room. They had a bar set up in the dining room and had hired a bartender. It was classy.
I was talking to this one woman when someone started singing. I looked over at the piano and there was this girl standing there, singing in Italian. She couldn't have been more than 23, tops.
This was the f*cked up thing, she was singing and it was f*cking beautiful and no one was paying any attention to her.
Was she pretty? Yes, she was pretty. Now are you going to let me tell this or not?
The woman who was talking to me saw me looking at the girl and told me she was the trophy wife of the guy hosting the party. She was sort of a bitch about it, but that's New York women for you. Are you? Well, that explains a lot.
I needed a smoke so I went downstairs and stood outside the building. I guess I was out there for awhile. My friend's wife called me and told me to get my ass back upstairs. I was just turning around again when the doorman opened the door and the girl came out.
I could tell she recognized me, so I said hello and told her that the party was great. She sort of laughed and told me that she didn't really know any of the people there, that they were all friends of her husband. I told her the couple I came with. She told me that my friend's wife had always been nice to her. My friend's wife - such a pain in the ass - has his balls for breakfast everyday, but I've never seen her be mean to anyone. I guess he did well for himself.
I took out another smoke and she asked for one too. I made some comment about how I didn't realize that singing and smoking mixed. She blushed. Long time since I saw a woman blush. But she was just a girl. She told me that she was postponing having to go back in. So I gave her a smoke.
We talked for awhile. About what? Nothing, we just talked.
She finished the cigarette that she wasn't really inhaling anyway. We were heading back when I took her hand and led her away from the door until we were out of sight. Then I kissed her. And she kissed me back.
What the hell kind of question is that? Yes, I do remember. She tasted of champagne and the cigarette she just smoked.
What? Well, this is the story I'm telling you, isn't it. Yes, it was. It is.
She went back in alone and I stood out there a while longer until my friend and his wife came back down. He went into the street to hail a cab. My friend's wife stared at me a moment before wiping lipstick from the corner of my mouth. I thought she'd give me shit, but she never said a word about it.
No, never saw the girl again.
Alright.
I was in NYC on business about... 5 years ago. I had just broken up with my girlfriend. Why? Shit. I guess it was because she wanted to get married, have kids. No, I have nothing against marriage. I AM married now. Two kids. Thanks. But back then... it just wasn't the right time.
So a buddy of mine and his wife were going to a cocktail party and they made me come along. Yes, I suppose she was trying to set me up with someone - she introduced me to every single woman there.
What? It was fine, the women were attractive enough.
My friend's wife is a violinist and so there were a lot of musicians at this party. Great apartment. Piano in the living room. They had a bar set up in the dining room and had hired a bartender. It was classy.
I was talking to this one woman when someone started singing. I looked over at the piano and there was this girl standing there, singing in Italian. She couldn't have been more than 23, tops.
This was the f*cked up thing, she was singing and it was f*cking beautiful and no one was paying any attention to her.
Was she pretty? Yes, she was pretty. Now are you going to let me tell this or not?
The woman who was talking to me saw me looking at the girl and told me she was the trophy wife of the guy hosting the party. She was sort of a bitch about it, but that's New York women for you. Are you? Well, that explains a lot.
I needed a smoke so I went downstairs and stood outside the building. I guess I was out there for awhile. My friend's wife called me and told me to get my ass back upstairs. I was just turning around again when the doorman opened the door and the girl came out.
I could tell she recognized me, so I said hello and told her that the party was great. She sort of laughed and told me that she didn't really know any of the people there, that they were all friends of her husband. I told her the couple I came with. She told me that my friend's wife had always been nice to her. My friend's wife - such a pain in the ass - has his balls for breakfast everyday, but I've never seen her be mean to anyone. I guess he did well for himself.
I took out another smoke and she asked for one too. I made some comment about how I didn't realize that singing and smoking mixed. She blushed. Long time since I saw a woman blush. But she was just a girl. She told me that she was postponing having to go back in. So I gave her a smoke.
We talked for awhile. About what? Nothing, we just talked.
She finished the cigarette that she wasn't really inhaling anyway. We were heading back when I took her hand and led her away from the door until we were out of sight. Then I kissed her. And she kissed me back.
What the hell kind of question is that? Yes, I do remember. She tasted of champagne and the cigarette she just smoked.
What? Well, this is the story I'm telling you, isn't it. Yes, it was. It is.
She went back in alone and I stood out there a while longer until my friend and his wife came back down. He went into the street to hail a cab. My friend's wife stared at me a moment before wiping lipstick from the corner of my mouth. I thought she'd give me shit, but she never said a word about it.
No, never saw the girl again.
Friday, February 1, 2008
1.4
He was a friend of a friend.
We met over drinks one evening. You know how some men, athletic men, move differently? An unconscious grace, expressed even when they sit, roll their cigarettes, speak.
I was in love with someone else. Someone jealous and controlling and usually horrible to me. But that doesn't always stop us from loving, does it. Would be simpler if it did.
I pulled out a cigarette for myself and he lit a match and held it out to me. I cupped my hands around his and as I bent my head over the match, I glanced up to look him in the eye, and tapped a finger against his to say "thank you."
I'm not ugly but the guy I loved made me feel like I was.
But THIS guy... he was different. When we were out to dinner and other men looked at me, he wasn't jealous, he didn't pick a fight and make me cry. He told me, "I've always liked it when my woman is wanted by other men. As long as I know she's mine." He made me feel it was safe to be beautiful.
He'd call me in the middle of the day: "Hey, I'm in your favorite place right now..."
I'd reply, "Prada?"
He'd laugh and say, "The men's locker room."
He wasn't threatened that I liked to look at attractive men, that my eyes would roam over them, as long as they rested back on him. When he caught me looking, he would smile at me, I'd smile back, and he'd touch my hand, my waist, my thigh. He didn't call me a whore and storm away forcing me to run after him. But why would he be threatened? No one ever compared to him.
One night, after dinner, he walked me home and we stood at the front door of my building. We hugged goodnight, as always. But this time he didn't let me go. And when finally he pulled away, he did so only long enough to put his mouth on mine. I felt I was kissing two men, and all the confusion and rage and hurt and attraction and need that I felt, I put into that kiss.
We met over drinks one evening. You know how some men, athletic men, move differently? An unconscious grace, expressed even when they sit, roll their cigarettes, speak.
I was in love with someone else. Someone jealous and controlling and usually horrible to me. But that doesn't always stop us from loving, does it. Would be simpler if it did.
I pulled out a cigarette for myself and he lit a match and held it out to me. I cupped my hands around his and as I bent my head over the match, I glanced up to look him in the eye, and tapped a finger against his to say "thank you."
I'm not ugly but the guy I loved made me feel like I was.
But THIS guy... he was different. When we were out to dinner and other men looked at me, he wasn't jealous, he didn't pick a fight and make me cry. He told me, "I've always liked it when my woman is wanted by other men. As long as I know she's mine." He made me feel it was safe to be beautiful.
He'd call me in the middle of the day: "Hey, I'm in your favorite place right now..."
I'd reply, "Prada?"
He'd laugh and say, "The men's locker room."
He wasn't threatened that I liked to look at attractive men, that my eyes would roam over them, as long as they rested back on him. When he caught me looking, he would smile at me, I'd smile back, and he'd touch my hand, my waist, my thigh. He didn't call me a whore and storm away forcing me to run after him. But why would he be threatened? No one ever compared to him.
One night, after dinner, he walked me home and we stood at the front door of my building. We hugged goodnight, as always. But this time he didn't let me go. And when finally he pulled away, he did so only long enough to put his mouth on mine. I felt I was kissing two men, and all the confusion and rage and hurt and attraction and need that I felt, I put into that kiss.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
