I am the feminine one, he the masculine. I speak the emotions, the passions, the needs, the sadness, the turmoil. He shouts the wants, knocks down the walls, stalks. I move the pen; he knocks it out of my hand. I am and will never be at rest, never content, always upset at my insecurities, bawling at life's unfairness. I am the one who is fucked in bed, but then again, that is perhaps my only moment of singular happiness. To lie in embrace, to be overtaken, covered, consoled is comfort. He fucks, and fucks he does -- toys with men's hearts, for that emotional high, for the want to be needed. I cry for the past, he screams for the future. He is the external, the one everyone sees, he is what everyone expects him to be, back straight, shoulders wide, chest forward -- a man. I cower behind him, holding onto the tail of his jacket, afraid to be judged, demeaned for being a sissy.

I was the one who was pissed at Mike, curled up in his bed after agreeing to come over late that night, feeling lonelier with him inches away than I had ever been in moments of isolation. I was the one in eternal search for a father figure.

He just didn't care. He wanted sex, that's all. It had been nearly two years, and never had he stopped to realize that he was still making my heart bleed for some superficial satiation. For him, it was a victory. He was back in his ex's bed. He was wanted again, wanted again by someone who had dumped his ass two years ago.

A sad boy indeed.

I like smells, good and bad--mainly good. Acqua di gio, gasoline, a man's flesh, post-rain grass, semen, permanent marker -- all excite in one way or another. I like emotions, good and bad--mainly bad, identifying them, soaking in them, amplifying them with music. It makes me feel alive, and so does sex. James Baldwin and I would probably not get along. I suppose for now my principal aim in life is pleasure (and I can be earnest about select things), but then again, what do you do with life if you can't go after things that make you feel alive? Play dead? James Baldwin is too stiff.

Choice. Change. The weather. Things that splay. The way a wave curls before it breaks. I too like destruction, randomness, Kali, Chinese characters, and naming my future children after Greek gods. I try to be a good person, but I like seeing those who deserve to be hurt hurt. Playing one song on repeat for days on end pleases. A good set of pecs, biceps, a broad back (and a brain, of course) thrills. Sleeping naked is great but not for those with a double. I like to laugh, even at the expense of others, though I do have a limit.

I am not scared of death but I cannot say the same of a dirty toilet seat or shiny keyboard.

I hate Paris Hilton, disappointment, religion, the cold, and the stupid, people and otherwise.

Making love and fucking, like onion rings and Funyuns, diamond and cubic zirconia, the American dollar and Monopoly money.

One's the cheap, tawdry counterpart of the other. Sure, they might look alike, might be just as fun, and hey, sometimes tastes just as good! But there's that inherent supremacy, that depth. Making love has got more stock, more value, more emotion to it. It's cultivated, meticulously prepared, designed to withstand, like a farmer's crop. Fucking is like going to Kroger's and buying the cherry for, I don't know, $3.99 a pound. It's easy to buy and easy to forget, good while it lasts though.

No example makes the distinction more apparent than the following:

Ah, prostitutes, harlots, ladies of the evening -- they are the litmus test of the sexual world. (And like real litmus paper, are used for their purpose and discarded). You could fuck a prostitute if the price is right, but it'd be damn near impossible to make love to her. I'm not sure she'd want it anyway. Fucking is her job; making love her aspiration (when she's off the clock, of course).

For those Us Weekly-oriented persons, here's a more fitting analogy: making love was something I'm sure Brad Pitt did with Jennifer Aniston. With that sultry home-wrecker Angelina Jolie, I really don't know. While Angelina may be undeniably scorching, she lacks that wholesomeness Jennifer has. Making love to Jennifer can result in you bringing her home to Mom and Dad, fucking Angelina can result in you bringing her to a VD clinic.

Ultimately, fucking is like riding the bus--you hop on only to get off.

Making love is like flying a plane--you have to train a really long time for it, but when you hit that high point, baby you can touch the sky.

I remember when you fell asleep on me, tucked into that cranny between arm and chest. We were lying on the couch, watching Contact, and Jodie Foster had just lightly floated down onto that dark-sky paradise. I wondered if you wrapped in my arms was the beginning of something that sublime.

You were the witty but impassive one.

I remember when I heard your stomach rumble, and I made you ramen noodles with almost husband-like fashion. You had the face and virtuousness of a saint, from your eyes shined the light of a thousand murals, and I somehow could not help but want to make you happy.

You were the cheerful but thin-skinned one.

I remember when we would stay up in Davenport Library working on God-knows-what, spinning in our wheel-y chairs deliriously while taking pictures, or that one time when we went to Samurai for my birthday and you treated me to a platter of sushi so large, it took up the entire table. You treated me like a king, and I must say, I have yet to find someone who is willing to call me every morning to wake me up, even when he's in the Philippines and has to do it online over Skype.

You were the loyal but unhinged one.

I remember when we sat in Hermann Park that warm, summer night, curled up in a huge, stone, open-palmed sculpture. Every sentence out of our mouths was laced some subtle flirtation, and by the end of our park excursion, I was piggy-backed on you, and we were playfully pretending to be mad at one another, my legs squeezing your torso every time you said some particularly vicious remark.

You were the handsome but stone-souled one.

I remember too much, but of true love, partake too little.

"Hoe-ish" -- the urban dweller's term for those of promiscuous behavior, or seemingly "loose" ethics. It can be a word laced with animosity, but mostly it is used to express subtle disdain at the improper or unacceptably sexual fashion choices or behaviors of others. "Hoe-ish" carries with it less momentum than if a girl were directly called a "whore", the "-ish" suffix "softening" the seemingly harsh word. Indeed, when compared to "whore," "hoe-ish" is rather innocuous. From the more proper but still urban English word "whore-ish", which Webster's would define as "of or like a whore", "hoe-ish" can be used in a variety of effective and appreciably scathing ways.

Example the first:

"Why is that girl's skirt so high you can see her tampon string? Man that girl be lookin' hoe-ish."

The implication here is that the girl appears to be exhibiting the visual characteristics of a prostitute, that is, she's attempting to attract the attention of men through clothing, or lack there of, so that she can sell them sex. For one who is not actually a prostitute, such a comparison is obviously unflattering.

Example the second:

"Look at Gina on da dance flo'. Just look at her! Every time I turn around she grindin' up on a different man. I warned her last night not to be so hoe-ish. Oh now she takin' off her bra. Dat is jus unacceptable."

Here, the meaning alters slightly, the disapproval stemming from her exhibiting overtly sexual behaviors. Gina's friend does not approve of her appearing to be copulating with every man on the dance floor, and neither the implication includes, does any other girl in the immediate vicinity. Gina taking off her bra merely compounds the situation and reinforces the idea that Gina is of "hoe-like" quality.

Number of parental figures before 1993: 2

Number of parental figures after 1993: 1

Number of constant father figures in my life: 0

Number of girls I've bitten in elementary school because I thought her arm looked tender: 1

Number of times I've been sent to the principal's office in elementary school: 1

Number of times I've called a teacher ignorant for censoring me in the school newspaper: 1

Number of times I've made an obscene gesture towards said teacher: 1

Number of times I've been sent to the principal's office in high school: 2

Total number of hours I was berated by said teacher and principal: 5 ½

Total number of colleges I applied to in high school: 3

Number of Ivy League colleges I applied to: 2

Number of safety schools I applied to: 1

Number of safety schools that fell through because I submitted my application late: 1

Number of mirrors broken within the first month of freshman year of college: 3

Number of years I am promised bad luck: 0 - 21, depending on what you believe

Number of police incidents in Davenport since I have been at Yale: 3

Percentage of said police incidents that I was directly involved in: 66.6%

Percentage of said police incidents that I was not directly involved in but close friends were, and I was at the scene: 33.4%

Percentage of police incidents that were my fault: 0%

Number of classes at Yale that I was told as a freshman would be possible to fail: 0

Number of classes that I have failed: 1

Rate in which I've been called into the dean's since I've been at Yale: at least 1 time/semester

wiLLay [ 6:44 PM ]

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