Don't Fly Too Close to the Sun

"There is a crack, a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in" --Leonard Cohen, Anthem

It's been four years, longer actually; my text log only goes back that far. I thought I was safe. I thought I'd protected myself.

For four years, Aaron and I met up every couple of months (or weeks, schedules permitting). We fucked in different counties, houses (his mom's, his friend's, my housesit), vehicles, and dark parking lots. Despite my vast list of sexual "buddies", I liked him best and when he texted, did my best to accommodate him. He's the one who broke my lengthy 'pandemic-abstinence'. Throughout the years, he insisted upon texting "I love you", or "I am infatuated", and the like. I took these bullshit declarations with a grain of salt. He loves me? EL-OH-EL. He doesn't even know me, and why?... because he doesn't bother asking me anything personal. With everyone else on earth I'm a vault. Yet with him, I yearn to spill my guts (breaking fuck-buddy rule #2) and worse, to know every last detail about his life.

I should know better. I do know better. The less you know about a fuck buddy, the less likely you are to catch feelings. Unfortunately, the more you like someone, the more you desire to know what makes them tick. How can he seemingly pinpoint the inner workings of my dysfunctional self (the fears, insecurity, sluttiness) yet be so uncurious about the whys and wherefores that created this monster?

In a way, he's like the Cyrano of texting. Except he is both Cyrano and Christian. His actual face-to-face conversation doesn't hold a candle to his written words (to be honest, the same could be said about me). Besides his frequent declarations of love, his texts to me read like a man holding himself back from committing to a woman he knows isn't ready or willing to take the relationship a step further. For the first time in four years, I decide to scroll back allll the way to the beginning of our texts. Bad idea. Out of context with the reality of our marginal relationship, the words create a different narrative.

I am particularly susceptible to the written word. Knowing this, I've deliberately downplayed his. If he texts "I love you", I text back "luv u too butthead" in order to keep it light, unimportant. I've told him in the past that I'm a sure thing; he doesn't need to flatter me to get me to put out, and that I'd prefer it if he didn't say things he doesn't mean. Finally, whilst teetering on the edge of a mighty chasm named The Valley of You're Screwed, I decided to straight-up ask him to stop.

"Can I be real with you for a sec?" I asked as we drove to the skeezy, hourly motel in which we sometimes frolicked. He was holding my hand and resting his head on my shoulder as I drove.

"Of course", he answered.

The words stuck in my throat. As a general rule, I avoid revealing any sort of true emotion to anyone. It makes me feel uncomfortably vulnerable.

"Never mind", I mumbled, "I can't do this. I don't do this."

He lifted his head to look at me.

"Tell me", he said simply.

I struggled to get the words out.

"You don't have to sweet talk me," I told him.

"I'm an affectionate person," he said slowly, looking slightly confused.

"No," I tried to explain, "I don't have a problem with you showing physical affection, just please don't text words you don't mean."

He still didn't seem quite clear on my meaning.

"Look," I said, " We've known each other for years and you already know I like you. Don't try to make me fall in love with you. Believe me, you don't want that."

"I don't?" he said with calm curiosity. " Why's that?"

"When I love someone, I fall way too hard. I will kill or die for you. I'll do absolutely anything you want. This might sound like a good thing but it's not because I also lose all good sense and judgment. My moral compass goes haywire. And it's way too intense."

To my frustration, try as I might, I can't recall how he responded to this. I feel like he more or less understood what I was trying to say and somehow we transitioned to the familiar and comfortable arena of the vehicular blow job.

About a week later, he called me around 6:00 a.m. on a Sunday, drunk off his ass and spouting all kinds of (slurred) words of affection. Thanks, Universe.

End of Wings of Pastrami, Icarus part 3.

Next: Deconstructing the catching of feelings...