ImageI like your firm back, your broad American football shoulders, the length of your shiny brown hair that flows all the way down to your butt. You’re at least four inches taller than me in high heels, and while that bothers me in public, it excites me enormously, in private.

Your eyes are a bit small, but they burn brightly like glistening hazlenuts. Your legs look slim in pants, but are full and round naked. The red lipstick on your lips presents a blazing fire made of flesh.

When I’m alone with you, you are highly sensitive and can’t watch drama movies for fear you will break down and cry. You cry often enough, I’ve come to see the inflationary rate of your tears. There’s no sadness in your crying, only the joy of living. With wet cheeks you have the mesmerizing beauty of a sad sea-green mermaid. By the way, you look the hottest, with your sea-green blouse and fiery red skirt.

Sex with you is only perfect if you end up bruised, with islands of blue and purple marking the spots where I claimed you. You’re an easy comer. Between five and ten minutes of medium fast penetration will do it. Sorry if this reads like the description of a car. You’re not a thing. You’re an animal. A ferocious glutton. If it gives you pleasure, you have no limits. It’s a miracle you’re still so thin. You wolf down cupcakes faster than twenty sugar addicted toddlers combined.

And it’s a miracle you haven’t dwarfed me and locked me back in your womb. You are that excessive. When you are with friends, you look like you haven’t been socialized yet. An eternal teenager, ever the playground outcast, your ways are studied, non-spontaneous and crude. You give boys slaps on the back that twist their collar bones. Strange how you can be such a succesful business woman. Maybe because you can’t be overlooked?

And maybe for that exact reason, you make such a lasting impression on people. Men around you, are either too intimidated by your looks to approach, or they turn into little school boys who play the equivalent of pulling your hair, with their verbal teasing. Sexual tension behind every tiny insult they throw at you.

You are everything I could ask for in a woman. Your height dwarfs me, you are a divinely soft retreat from the scary outside world, in your arms it’s suddenly ok to have a fear of life, all I have to do is cover you in continuous caresses, you’re a natural anxiolytic with breasts. Tiny breasts in comparison to your height, which arouses me all the more. They look like perfect sculptures with no risk of ever sagging. You are the soft padded tunnel out of this life. “Throw down your umbilical noose so I can climb right back”, screams Cobain while I’m in you. Dissolving. I only like life when I’m escaping from it.

Transcendental. ‘Bi-polar opposites attract’, goes the next song in the background. I never thought my weaknesses could turn on a woman. I crawl in your armour and you close the steel vaults behind me. I love the feel of your protective pincers in the skin of my neck. And you relish the security that I could never hurt you. A feeling you find contradicting, because: “I am never attracted to sweet boys. Maybe it’s because I’m the only one with whom your sweetness is not pretended.”

My Isis, your Osiris. You keep me on a tight leash. No glancing at other women allowed. Granted the fruit of your gifts, I will subject myself to you, to you and no other. Or you will shun me and leave me to dry on the beach in the hot callous sand. Glad we got the rules sorted out.

You text me about 150 times a day. It drives anyone around me crazy. I’m unable to hold any kind of coherent conversation with anyone any more. Up until the point that people don’t want to meet up with me if you are not there in body and spirit, so at least we aren’t texting.

You’re not texting me because you miss me. We are so connected missing isn’t an option. You text me, because you are boundless in any area. Including my ambition. You prod me on to accomplish things. You arrange everything so that I can write. For once I can stand the pampering, because the pampering is conditional. You get all administrative chores done that come with living together, on the condition that I write. You switch of internet. You delete all my porno files. You delete all computer games, which pose a far more time-consuming threat. When friends want to see me, they have to arrange it with you. You’re the first girlfriend to tell me:

“Ok, you talk about wanting to be a writer. And then you complain about not being one. I give you two options: you start writing and you never ever bitch about how hard it is, or you never write a damn thing in your life any more and you never talk about it ever again and you find some other thing to focus on. Writing is only for those who haven’t got a choice in it. Either you need to write or you die, or you don’t need to write, then you don’t do it, you don’t die and you don’t bitch about it.”

The sex is blissful. It’s the sort of sex astrology books describe when talking about Pisces(male)- Cancer (female) relationships. For months on end we are locked inside each other. And when we wake up, it’s like arising from an opium dream. Eyes still misty and vision still blurry. Head and body slightly numb. If every one woke up in a relationship like this today, we’d have world peace by next week.

You read and criticize everything I write, except this female alphabet.

“Why do you have to do that? I at least hope it has some commercial value for a change. These plotless things don’t sell. There’s no story, they’re just portraits. They won’t sell.”

“It’s the perfect time for me to muse about bygones, because you’re the last one.”

“Don’t be so fucking corny.”

“Look, this female alphabet stuff, it’s just a warm-up, it’s what I write every day before I write the real stuff. The plot stuff. The stuff you read about in that book you like so much. The breakout novelist.

ImageYou’ve promoted yourself to my literary agent/manager and you take your job VERY seriously. You’ve read 8 ‘How to write books’ in two weeks. Including Stephen King’s ‘On writing ‘, which came highly recommended, but “sucked big time”, according to you. As did most other ‘how to write books’. You are the overnight expert, because you read 8, but you started reading over 20 of them. The ones you liked are ‘How not to write a novel‘, ‘how to write a damn good novel‘ and this ‘the breakout novelist’, especially this last one seems to be THE manual.

Your advice is sound, critical, but fair. “There is never any conflict in your stories.”

“I do like your dialogue. But you need Imagemore conflict.”

“O no no no, these last two chapters read like a history text book. Stop that. Make the history come alive. Show, not tell.”

You put a big cardboard sign behind my laptop reading: SHOW, NOT TELL.

My no-sex-female-friend asks where did you meet this one?

“We shared a cab coming back from a conference on international security.”

“What were you do doing there?”

“Research for my book about the American Civil war.”

“Is that still a threat to international security?”

“No, but there were a lot of Americans there.”

“Ok, whatever, what was she doing there?”

“She represents a Belgian company that specializes in technology.”

“War technology, you mean.”

“Well, night vision devices and stuff like that.”

“Right.”

“Look, she’s really good at what she does.”

“At helping to kill people?”

“Don’t be like that. If she doesn’t do it, someone else will. It’s the system that pushes people to take jobs like this.”

“Right, let’s not get into that the-system-causes-all-the-evil-discussion now. So, she works for the military complex and now she’s your own private dictator.”

“No, she’s ambitious, and she gives me direction.”

“So you can write, but it has to land you a huge pile of money.”

“Well, huge, not exactly, not with this book market. But some money, yes. And I can’t see what’s wrong with that. If I get money for it, it just means that enough people like it. That I’m not writing just for me. If I was writing just for me, I might as well go fishing on a Sunday, just for me.”

“Completely non-sensical argument, but whatever. Are you under contract with this woman?”

“Her name is Jess. Short for Jessica.”

“Yeah, ok, Jess, wess, dess, mess, are you under contract? When is she ditching you? When you don’t deliver a bestseller, say, next year?”

“No, I’m not under any contract. And she makes plenty of money by herself, it’s not like she needs me to make a lot of money. She just insists on getting me to go the whole nine yards with this writing, ok? She’s one of these people who go for it all the way, 100 percent of the time. No matter which field they are in. And I like it that she helps me. And we have great sex.”

“Yes, I guessed that. You wouldn’t let her dictate your entire life, if she wasn’t at least giving you great sex. It’s just sounds like your dating Courtney Love. And you know what happened to Kurt Cobain.”

“If she gets me famous I don’t even care.”

“That’s what you say now.”

In the months that follow, you get fatter and much more of a dictator. The fatter you get, the more of a mother figure I see in you, less a woman, less a sex partner with every pound you gain, more a mother with how I have an incestuous relationship. You become massive.

The difference in height, at first so hormone arousing, becomes ridiculous, how much I wanted to get in you at first, how much I want to get away from you now. The loss of sexual interest appears to be mutual. You say you often have quick drops and gains in your weight. It has something to do with stress at work. I bide my time. You’ll get thin again. And I feel guitly for finding something so basic, so important. We’ll weather through this. With my eyes closed the blowjobs are still good.

Then finally, you want me to write a thriller.

“But I don’t write thrillers. I’ve never even read a thriller. Not one.”

“So? I don’t want you to read one, I want you to write one.”

“But it’s not my genre.”

“You don’t have a genre. Plotless dialogue isn’t a genre either. It doesn’t sell.”

“I don’t know if you understand this, it’s something of a paradox, maybe the surest way not to get sold as a writer, is to write mainly with selling in mind.”

“That’s exactly the philosophy that got you zero bestsellers so far.”

And then the word comes. The dreaded word. A word sculpted in the coldest ice.

“You’re such a loser.”

We break up, on the spot. The conflict you deemed so imperative to get a story going, is what ends our story. Maybe it’s true, maybe that is what is lacking, both in my writing and in my life, a fundamental fear of conflict.

Thanks for the lesson, but in a world where ‘loser’ is already so much on the tip of anyone’s tongue when looking at our fellow men and women, you just can’t allow your girlfriend to call you that way. That ice dagger of a word, that sums up the spirit of our age: winners versus losers. A spirit I want no part of, not the slightest bit.

You did get thin again, I hear. And you married an architect. After which you bloated again, like an inflatable vessel. Also very Cancer-like, astrologists agree.