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Silent, like the mind never could be.
You sit, and when the silence hits, you think about the lack of noise, unintentionally creating a buzz larger than a swarm of bees living in your frontal lobe.
God I hate that, the buzzing, the zing, and the never-ending torture that feels like battery acid being poured into your ears. The sound is like herpes; once you’ve got it… you don’t just make it go away. The two things are really very similar, if you think about it -- I mean, unintentionally even the most pristine goody two shoes is searching for …a mate if you will.
Sex, S-E-X: it’s not a teenage thing, it’s a people thing. But of course everyone knows that right?
God I really have to stop thinking things like that. If the world was a Sci-Fi movie, where everyone could read minds, I would be f'd. I mean really, if you know someone could read your thoughts, could you really just sit there and create some sort of hard-ass mental wall? I think not, more like all the thoughts no one would ever dare say aloud would come flooding up to the surface, like a dead body in elephant butte.
Phone ringing. (It’s him, of course.)
Knock knock: let me in.
Let me in -- tell me how you feel.
Word, let me open my mind and spill my thoughts on your lap so you can know I feel about the drunken screw you enjoyed last Saturday. Drunken girls are hot when they take off their clothes and say yes, no, yes, no, yes, no, okay do it, right?
Three words, who knew three words, could change the world so much. Not the world, per se, just the general reality that I live in. If there’s fault, and it’s not his then, is it mine? Or is there fault at all? On paper, legally, he's screwed...or does it matter if I was sixteen and he was eighteen, I was drunk and he was sober? It’s not black and white, is it? I wish I had a color switch. Turn the color on and off. But it’s ok right?
Whatever, it’s like a puzzle piece in an old cardboard box covered in dust in someone else’s attic.
And they say, who cares man, at least you had sex. Shazzam!
No not to me, to him.
I guess I am kind of angry. I wasn’t really ready to let go of the last part of who I was.
But that’s not fair is it? I mean I can’t say he stole a part of my youth. I mean, I pretty much gave it to him. Handed it over on a drunken, %$*#ed up platter. It never had it all, though. I mean what do you do with that?
I feel stuck. Like I can’t let go, and I can’t stay with this, you know? I can’t stay connected to this, because it’s not as good as what I’ve had. When you’ve had better, emotionally, it’s really hard to settle. But I needed something, to hold onto in this new and amazingly terrifying wonderland. And he was it. But when do I learn to walk again, if I can’t be innocent anymore?
* * *
It’s amazing how years can pass in months, eons and centuries can fly by in seconds.
When you look forward to something, you hunger for it, crave for a taste with all of your soul, and then it comes and goes before you can hold on. It’s a good thing you can force it with the shit stuff.
Who would have believed I lost my virginity, my innocence, the one last thing I was sure I had going for me, just five months ago? I can look back and pretend it never happened. I can look back and make up a prettier, less tainted version. What do I tell people who’ve still retained that particular puzzle piece?
What do I tell my boyfriend when the question comes up?
When we get close and we start to talk about getting closer, maybe not even sex, but closer, and he asks, or he assumes, and I say -- What? No, I’m not a virgin. Do I tell him the truth? The brutal, blatant truth? I got very, very drunk, and I had sex with a very, very sober boy? And then two weeks later I had sex with him again, horrible uncomfortable sex, because I didn’t know how else to fill the hole he created when he first pounded my brains out?
What do I tell him?
I can’t lie. I wouldn’t lie. It’s not even a possibility. That, that part of my childhood, my adulthood, that defines people in American culture. If we’re really close, will he feel for me? Will he finally be the first one that gets angry at him? Will he be disgusted? Will he push me away in horror at a part of me he probably never imagined?
You can’t just take a sterile knife and cut it out.
Not something like that.