This is an essay I wrote influenced by Brenda Miller’s essay, “A Brief History of Sex”.
2006 – Alex
He was like a whirlwind of colors, textures, and of a taste between my teeth. Under my tongue, I could smell him inside of my head. The smoke from our newly extinguished cigarettes sat in a haze above our faces. I traced his eyes, nose, lips with my finger. Bright, rough and smooth, this is the way I remember swinging in your hammock, strung out, between two lazy trees, their branches splitting from the wind and rain. I wrapped my heavy arms around his soft belly and placed my ear on top of his navel. I made believe that it was like a conch and I could hear what was happening inside of him. Sound waves of earlier regrets and words never spoken floated around, drifting up to the surface. I promised I would rid him of these cancers, letting his miseries stumble down my throat and splash into the river my stomach had become. Deep inside of me they collided and danced, deep inside he kissed my neck.
2009 – Not Alex
The silence feels more like a sound inside my bed. The same be that has acted more like a revolving door these last few months than a place to rest my tired head. I pull all three of my blankets up to my neck. With only my head sticking out, I place my face in my hands, peeking at them through my fingers. The slow rise, the soft sigh that escapes their parted lips, red and raw, before the exploration for clothing begins.
The pants are usually found at the foot of the bed, more often than not on the floor. The grandiose, button-up shirt with golden thread stitched throughout is sometimes by the door and sometimes by the window, but never near the pants.
Through my fingers I realize that they all leave the same. Their backs slightly hunched, a perfect spine staring me down. They remain facing away from the same place they could hardly wait to be introduced to an hour ago. Their eyes fixate on their hands, following the miniature ridges and slopes in buttons and zippers. They are hurried, but not sloppy, their feet never getting caught in their pants. Around the time they start looking for their socks is when I grab whatever is nearest and dress myself. Discreetly, but not quite ashamed, I am finished before laces are tied.
We stand in an awkward unison, and I lead our scandalous dance thirtysomething feet across the living room to the front door. Then comes the part I spend all evening dreading. I brace myself for the part I can feel pushing down on me. This is the part of these poorly made decisions that turns my stomach most; the kiss goodbye.
2009: A Letter To Alex
This is not the letter I sent to you in the mail. That one cost me 32 cents plus the cost of the hours I spent agonizing over the way my X’s seem overbearing and the way my words sometimes crash into each other, my hand unable to keep pace with my thoughts. This is the letter I will hide in the lining of my winter coat this season. This is the letter I will read over and over again until the paper becomes worn and thin, small holes that look like pinpricks will dot the piece of gray paper that used to be crisp and white. I want to say “enough of this sad shit” and go on about how wonderful that week will be when we see each other, but I cannot stop this rabid loneliness that our ever-increasing distance lays over me, like a big, wet blanket.
Missing you, the way that I do, is wholly consuming. It begins at my fingertips and flows through my veins like red hot electricity. It makes my hair stand on end and my heart slam into my ribcage.
Inside my head, I tell myself that this constant feeling of absence is irrational. My constant thoughts of your soft skin and big brown eyes cause me to forget to hear the things my friends are saying to me. I meet so many men in hopes of finding one that reminds me of you. Their hands are not gentle and they never whisper in my ear the dreams we made when we were young. They do not run their fingers through my hair until my breathing slows and my eyelids quiver during a dream I won’t be able to wait to tell you about. I have waited my entire life to stop relying on men. Why do I rely on you to cure this monotonous and uninterrupted vacancy inside of myself?
Sometimes, when sleep doesn’t come easily, I can see you inside of my head. And like a broken film reel, scenes from our entanglement earlier this summer replay, on a loop. And if sleep still has difficulty finding me, different movies of how we will spend the hours together when I make my way to the Pacific begin to play. These do not sedate me, they do not make me smile, because I know you will feel just as a mirage looks.
