A CERTAIN LEVEL OF AWARENESS

(c) Breeze Vincinz

Once upon a time my parents had sex. It’s an absolutely horrible, atrocious and downright sickening thing to come to terms with. The majority of my life has really been supported with the image of my parents innocently holding hands on a front porch drinking lemonade and watching the sun kissed horizon when a stork from the heavens gently cascades down and presents them with me, a wonderfully pre-scrubbed little cherub lightly dusted with baby powder with nothing to offer but subtle purrs and giggles of enjoyment. They sleep in separate beds and any copulation pretty much consists of a light kiss on the cheek over breakfast toast or maybe he would help brush her hair after a rainstorm. This theory along with other concepts like incurring weight loss by drinking Diet Coke with a large pizza and buffalo wings as well as “hope” being a financial plan have kept me in a warm, comfortable state of oblivion for quite sometime now. But the truth of the matter is 0 calories + 2,100 calories = 2,100 calories. Management companies don’t accept “potential” instead of rent checks. Once upon a time… my parents had sex.

But still, I remember the blissful days of yore, chubby and content in my asbestos lined abode, satisfied that danger, inequity or harm would never really be bestowed upon a baby powered cherub like myself. This came to mind recently after a wonderfully grimy sexual tryst with a faithful Booty Call of mine.

Booty Call: a visitation made with the sole intent of arranging a meeting for sexual acts with the person being contacted.

The way we interact is that he comes over, we have a really nice conversation from anywhere from thirty minutes to an hour, maybe even watch a little television. We put on some jazz, we talk a little more, we move a little closer and become and little more intimate and then… well… we fuck… really hard. We fuck like rabid monkeys who haven’t been fed all day. We don’t make love, we fuck. When it’s over, we have a little more of that easy conversation that we both adore and if time allows we might go at it again and if not there’s a nice kiss and a hug as we part separate ways.

We’ve had this routine for years now and it seems to work for the both of us. Coincidentally he has been in significant relationships during all this time, both with men and women. Currently, it’s with a man who resides thousands of miles away. No matter. I charged my two liter diet coke and large supreme pizza on my credit card at a 37% interest rate and invited him over.

After our last sexual tryst, however, while lying in his arms for our comfortably predictable post-coital wrap up, I mentioned in a relaxed and breathy tone how happy I was that he came over. And in that candle-lit room he intoned even more relaxed and breathy, “It is what it is, nothing more, nothing less, just really good sex.” I yawned and stretched and breezily said, “You… sir… got to get the fuck out of here.”

I mentioned this to a couple of friends and the consensus is that, if the sex is good, astoundingly good at that, why end this relatively functional tête-à-tête. And if I really didn’t have any intentions of truly pursuing him, then why did my body go cold, my skin frost over into ice then crack all the way through to the core? Why was I a little surprised he didn’t get frostbite from just lying right there with me?

The truth of the matter is that I never really had any intention of elevating our association to something more substantial or formal. The truth of the matter is that I have always been fully aware of his more substantial and formal relationships. But I will admit I did think it was a little more. Nothing akin to a “relationship”, but definitely something respectful, cordial and even-keeled. But I’m realizing that this is something akin to babies being dropped off by storks, Pizza Hut diets and I.O.U. financial plans. The truth of the matter is that… what we have is just really good sex… nothing more, nothing less…

…and I just didn’t need to hear it, regardless if it was true or not.

To put it into words somehow made everything off kilter. In this, I really needed some delusion here. For him to say that what we have is just sex implicated that I want more or that all of the extra accoutrements of our fucking, the talking, the caressing, the candle-lit room, is completely inconsequential. In this, he was no longer my Booty Call, but I was Cum Dump.

Cum Dump: someone who has a tendency to malign the need to receive fundamental respect in an effort to ingest as much semen as possible.

Prior, it was more like we were each other’s Booty Call, Fuck Buddies, Friends with Benefits. Lying there I realized that this was not the case; when his husband is away and he needs to get off, I’m just the nearest hole around. And while I didn’t feel like that before, I wonder if that’s what I have always been and just didn’t realize it, the same way I never realized my parents ever fucked… really hard… like rabid monkeys who haven’t been fed all day, or drinking Diet Coke thinking it would soak up the fat of the large pizza and buffalo wings or counting on my student loans to be paid once my million dollar check comes in from being on the cover of Rolling Stone one glorious day. I was realizing how much a little delusion has played a part in my psyche all these years, and how sometimes, in my own passive aggressive way, I have mistaken it for hope or optimism… and how that has to stop.

It reminds of something Maya Angelou intoned whereas when you know better you do better, and that’s the soap bubble of delusion; once you realize you’re in it… it bursts, and you can never get back in. So hear I am, the chubby, check bouncing, cum dump descendant of fucking rabid monkeys. Yeah… I miss my delusions of grandeur. But I can say that certain level of awareness that thrusts upon you when the bubble bursts is nothing short of an orgasmic spiritual revolution. Now that you know, you go to the gym, you balance your check book, you’re grateful your parents comingled because otherwise your sorry ass wouldn’t be here in the first place, you know who you are and you are no one’s cum dump and now you know how to never put yourself in that position again but first and foremost you stop fucking other people’s men. And once you realize all that… you write it all down so everybody who dares take a look at it rethink what they’re doing… and wake up too.