So I want to write a blog. Worked in the sex industry for 18 years, been in every kind of relationship, tried every kind of church, every kind of therapy. My friends think I am funny and wise. I have shit to say. Fuck it, let’s go.
Been on my proverbial knees begging for a cold open. Allotted myself 750 words, had none.
A cold open (also called a teaser[1]) in a television program…is the technique of jumping directly into a story at the beginning or opening of the show before the title sequence or opening credits are shown…this is often done on the theory that involving the audience in the plot as soon as possible will reduce the likelihood of their switching away from a show during the opening commercial. (Wikipedia)
Telling stories on the porch last week, my girl squeals at me “oh my god the tranny, you have to start with the tranny”. Except I don’t think of him that way (that only happened the once) and that piece isn’t written yet. Weirdly, the next day, he messaged me after 15 years and inspired something else entirely. That’s not it either. We’ll get there in time, but not yet.
None of the words I have written are strong enough to lead with. Not even the ones where I pull my heart out for show and tell.
I am pounding coffee, chain smoking, shaking my fists at the ether trying to call forth my muse. Thinking “you fucking cunt, I gave up morning sex for you”. More than that, I had a Scorpio fall asleep next to me in HIS incredibly expensive and comfortable memory foam bed that smells like him (jesus, he smells so good) and more importantly has HIM in it. He invited me to stay and I woke him up to lock me out so I could come home, wake up alone and write a blog about sex and relationships.
Wait for it…
Yup, I am stupid.
That is akin to being handed the Holy Grail and saying, no no, I am good over here with my sippy cup, it looks like a panda, see?
Would you read restaurant reviews written by an anorexic? Travel writing by a shut in?
Come on. What was I thinking?
Thank the gods he thinks I am adorable when I stumble and he has patience with me. He really does, in case I needed proof, I left him for a month.
Please mark my words while I explain my fumblings and mistakes so maybe you won’t make the same ones (lord hear my prayer). Hopefully I can shed some hope and amusement if learning from my mistakes doesn’t suit you.
Where was I? Oh yes.
Tenacious grace. He has that. Benevolent patience, he has that too. I call him Sunday.
I left him when I saw some grass that looked greener. Upon closer inspection it was actually Astro turf.
Astro turf: Why are you wearing man pants?
Me: I am going to see Sunday to pick something up, I am wearing mom clothes to deliberately look unattractive. He is a good man and I won’t be cruel.
Later that day…
Sunday: I left your bracelet at home because I didn’t want this to be the last time I saw you.
Me: (melt)
He picks the days I feel like shit to lift me up.
Two weeks later. I am pouring Wiser’s on a self-inflicted wound, plastic grass cuts like a mad motherfucker when you fall on it, not cushiony at all. Step daughter is on standby waiting to kill the Wi-Fi if I get too drunk and keep Facebooking, bless her. And under the wire, up pops Sunday. Telling me about some fabulous restaurant in LA.
The ether that hands me words sometimes gave me these 9
“whiskey wants to know when you are coming home”.
His answer?
“Sunday.”
I’ll spare you the details, I don’t want you to have them, those belong to us and us alone.
But I will say this, the lesson to be learned here is make your entrances and exits gentle dear hearts, don’t slam doors or break keys off in locks. And watch out for fake foliage of any kind.
Tell the truth even when your voice shakes. And for the love of god, stay over when he asks or you may find yourself pacing furrows into the floor mashing paper into pulp in your fists out of frustration instead of getting laid.
