You wanted me to write a book about you and the behind the scenes affaires of the national beauty contest. Something about having to have the right people backing you in order to win. Even beauty contests are about politics. You wanted a book to uncover all the scheming.
I’ll never know if you were serious about that. I was. I wrote the first pages the next day. Still have them somewhere. I sent them to you. You never answered. Let’s try to figure out why not.
You rang my door around ten or eleven at night. Minutes before you had been at one of those beauty contest events. You sang on the radio and stuff like that. I hate beauty contests, but I seem to like the women involved in them.
To my surprise you had a whole bag of bottles of wine and such with you. You said we were going to drink all of it. You had this strange allergy. You could only drink alcohol if you hadn’t eating anything all day. You could only drink on an empty stomach. Otherwise it was the emergeny room for you. Was that true or a dramatic embellishment? I never saw you as the biggest fan of truthfulness.
We installed ourselves on my bed. That’s the advantage of living in a place where the bedroom is an integral part of the living room, with no dividing walls. It feels natural to go and sit on the bed. It wasn’t the first time we sat on a bed together. It could be the fourth time. Only this one time did we get any further than talking. And I’ll never know what your real objective was.
You didn’t come first place in the beauty contest. But you did win the ‘miss sympathy’ title. So to me you did win the contest. And you ranked among the 20 most beautiful girls in the country. In theory, of course. Only in theory.
We had met two or three years before that. It was your first year at university. It was my last. In fact I shouldn’t have been there any more. I had already graduated the year before that. I was studying something completely out of my zone of interest, in a very desperate attempt to cling to the freedom of my student days. We were the welcoming party of your student organization. You and some 60 other newbies sat there in front of us. You stood out immediately. You had a lovely brown jacket. You had taken much more care than any of them to look good. All the simple tasted guys were drueling. The ones with refined taste, like my friends, didn’t care for you. Said you looked too childish, too barbie-like, too cliché, too typical. I don’t have refined tastes. I like barbies. And you were more than a barbie. To steal a line from the Blackadder series: you had in your eyes a hardly noticeable spark hinting at a sharp mind “as cunning as a fox who’s just been appointed Professor of Cunning at Oxford University”
The first party the student group threw, we talked till morning. If I remember correctly, it was you who sought contact with me. Not the other way around. It puzzled a few people. I was negging you. Before I knew there existed a word like that, I was negging you. Bashing you. Trying very hard to make you feel I wasn’t impressed by your looks. Which was total bullshit of course. Why was I talking to you about nothing at all, if I wasn’t drawn to your looks? Or was it the nonchalance and the not taking anything serious that did it? You said you liked Sarkozy because he was a total flop, but managed to get away with it. Was that a jab at me or am I simply reading too much into it?
When we left that morning, with the first light coming out, we arranged to have dinner together. A feat I was particularly proud about. Sad to admit.
We had dinner in a fancy restaurant. To my standards, not yours. If I remember correctly we went to rent a movie afterwards. I have no idea whatsoever which one. We watched it on my bed. I was suspecting you of playing some power game with me. When we were picking out a movie, you came close, very close, much closer than me. And you were trying hard to be somewhere near my height. Again, I’m only conjecturing. You were much taller than me. But the whole being too close stuff, came across as entirely innocent, as if you didn’t know girls communicate by the centimeters of distance they leave between them and the guy.
The same happened on my bed. Our shoulders touched. Sign enough to do more, with any ‘regular’ girl, but you weren’t regular. I had trouble reading you. And I didn’t move. The gut feeling said no. After the movie we had a small discussion. You could sleep with me. I tried to convince you, just to stay and sleep.
And you left, you wanted to sleep in your bed. Or no, no, wait a minute. Wait a minute. I completely forgot. How could I forget? You did stay the night! Why did I forget that? You slept in my bed. We didn’t do anything. Perhaps it was part of your power game. Maybe you were just too tired to walk home. It was only one mile, and you’re not the type that tires easily. So that’s unlikely. I can’t even remember how many clothes you lost. I think you slept in your bra. You had been a model for underwear. You didn’t care that much.
Strange I forgot. I probably suppressed it. You made me feel entirely asexual, by staying the night and making it seem completely natural that nothing more happened. Did we sleep spoon fashion? I have a hard time remembering. I think we did. And I hadn’t read all those pick up artist methods yet. Most a pity. I was stuck with my own crude tactics. I think I held you spoon fashion. It was you who moved closer. When nothing more happened, I didn’t have the tactic of turning away and ignoring you, so you would have tried a bit harder. Mabye. Just conjecture. So I just held you.
You had an absolutely amazing body. I would never get to see it, except your breasts. Two years later. Holding you had the exact right effect. The effect I love the most. To dissolve. To dissolve in femininity. To drown in it. To blend with it. Nirwana by diving in womanhood. I never told you. You’d have claimed that as a victory and you’d have move on. Conjecture, I know. You weren’t looking for more compliments. You got showered with compliments all the time. You were looking for a challenge. And somebody to take care of. You had a very motherly personality. You were elected Miss Sympathy two years later. When you left I had cold turkey. There was heroine in your scent and in touching you. I wasn’t in love with you. Strange to say. I would compare it more to a risk of substance absuse. I am good at warding of addiction risks. I have to be. I fit the junkie profile. I left you alone.
It was a period that my arrogance was peaking. Rapidly disintegrating. But still, high. So I was too proud to run after you. And I instinctively felt there was no point anyway. Your game was more subtle than mine. We ended up in bed again. I was slightly drunk. I had just kissed an other girl. My memory feels riddled with bullets here. It was either right before, or right after I had sex with that girl. But anyway, that night she had rejected me. I had come on too strong. I was talking too much about other women. I was ignoring the rules of the game. Impatient. Intensely in need of Woman. It was that horrible two month period where I didn’t have a steady girlfriend. No Woman on tab available.
You had a very cosy, very small room, that was very warm, and you had a ferret if I remember correctly. Could be confusing with some other girl’s room. Also decorated in pinkish, reddish hues. Your room was so small, the only option was to sit on the bed. I was bolder. I started touching you, rubbing across your belly and your arms. The ‘safe’ havens for lusty hands. After a while you stopped me. Said it was bad for our friendship. We didn’t meet again for two years. Or maybe we did once. It’s blurry. The two years after my graduation got deleted.
Somewhere in the course of those two years, you texted me and asked: ‘Why did we never have sex?’ I suspect it was right after you read something I had written on internet. Something similar to this Female Alphabet. Things like this always attract more female than male readers. The obvious answer to your question was: ‘Because you didn’t want to’. But did I send that? Did I answer at all? I was doing a job I resented, I hated myself, I hated my life, the only bright thing at the time was my girlfriend, who was right next to me, in the same bed you slept that one time, so maybe I didn’t answer. However unlike me that might be. I was feeling worthless enough at the time.
I was doing better little over a year later. That same girlfriend was studying at home. Instinctively knew you were coming over, and more than talking would be going on. We were on my bed. I was keeping some distance on purpose. And respectfully. I know most people would be surprised, but I’m basically a decent guy most of the time.
You put one of your legs across my lap. You jumped on my lap. We started kissing. Again this flooding feeling of heroine. No more pain, welcome emptiness in the head, symbiosis, like being back in the womb, being one, one with life, no thoughts, swallowed by you, your beauty, your strength, your easiness with life. We didn’t get far. You were wearing this really intricate body suit, with lots of laces at the back. Would have taken something like 10 to 15 minutes to get it off. Only your breasts were easy to free. I kissed them, a lot, and long. You’d told me you liked anal sex. Was that to tease me?
You said you had a very tall boyfriend with a tiny penis. You never felt much, except from behind. But he was so ashamed he insisted you sat on him, in which position you felt the least. I rubbed between your legs, but your clothes stayed on. This medieval like chastity body suit you were wearing was yellowish, brownish. Did you wear it on purpose? Like a harness? It’s hard to imagine you left anything at all to chance. You said you were sorry. Sorry has a very redundant, inappropriate ring at moments like that. Why did you so obviously initiate kissing if you didn’t really want anything? A game? A test? A small adventure? Curiosity? And all of a sudden you had to remind me I had a girlfriend. Yes, but you knew that before you jumped on me. Your game was still way more subtle than mine. Maybe we weren’t even playing the same game. I certainly didn’t know the rules to it. Perhaps in your head you were singing: ‘an other one bites the dust.’ My internal jukebox was aiming for ‘shot down in flames’. I didn’t feel too sorry. A bit puzzled, maybe. Like losing a poker game, with low stakes, just prestige.
You left at three o’clock in the night. You wanted to wake up in your own bed. At goodbye it occurred to me for the very first time how much taller you really were. You completely dwarfed me. I felt like the hobbit. I never saw you again. I had some small rise of euphoria that lasted one or two days max. Post-adventure adrenaline. I told my writing partner what had happened. He said I shouldn’t be so surprised and insecure.
My girlfriend emailed you the next day. You were easy to find. You were famous. I don’t know what she wrote you. I don’t know what you answered back. You were polite and friendly. My girlfriend never told me your answer, not specifically. She wanted to spare my feelings. My girlfriend and I were very, very, very close. And always looking for some easy way to canalize my excessive (or just healty, depending on the observer) libido. And hers, eventually.
You and I never met again. I think you asked me only once how I was doing. I answered, and got no answer back. Much later I asked how you were doing. And got no answer. Or you never got my message. Also possible.
And now it doesn’t matter any more. You wouldn’t have the same effect on me now, as you did back then. You know why? Because I know that sleeping with Misses, won’t cure my insecurities, won’t cure me of my fears, will not appease me and Life, nor my doubs as how to contribute to a modern day society as a man, not in a lasting way.
Having found a girlfriend more beautiful than any Miss also helps, of course. All the more attractive, because she would never enter a beauty contest. Though some have urged her to do so. I’m not saying this to hurt you. I would never do that. I’m stating it as fact. I am with a girl now who wraps me in her Womanhood without arousing my insecurities.
And there’s not much to be read into our sloppy encounters. The truth is you were simply not that attracted to me. A little bit, yes. But only because, unlike most guys, I puzzled you, and wasn’t too obviously attracted to you. And I negged you, before I knew what negging was. When I tried to be like Rhett Butler in Gone with the wind (see: Rhett Butler negging Scarlett). When I was trying to overcome insecurities, coating them in arrogance and directionless ambitions, instead of accepting the insecurities. Trying to overcome insecurities as a man, trying to make up for feelings of inadequacy as a man in society, by luring the most beautiful, ever more beautiful girls in your nets, not even because you think they are so beautiful, but also in part because society labels them as such, is not that different form a gambling or a drug addiction.
Anyway, I don’t have to neg you any more. You’re beautiful, you are warm, you are witty, funny, not because your jokes are funny, but because of the way you laugh at your own jokes, and you dress well, even though I am annoyed with people who spend too much time and money on dressing well, I like the way you dress. You have a talent for attracting the good things in life and a talent for having no worries. I have the former, but not the latter. A paradox, one might say.
I’m glad that on at least two occasions you chased off the boredom that was hanging over my life as a pall. In the end, whatever happens with the women in my life, what is left, is always gratefulness, for x time spent in your beauty, for the x time we made a blend, sturdy and less sturdy, for the x time my fear and rebellion towards being alive were squished, and for the peak moment memories, however hard to really put back together.
You have 1,572 Facebook friends. 1,573 if you accept my friend request.
The picture on your Facebook profile reads: “I heard you’re a player. Nice to meet you. I’m the coach.”