December 29, 2011

A Guest Post by JULIE ROBINSON with a brief introduction by MS. BLUE

This is it folks. Our last post for 2011. The next time we meet a new year, chock full of all kinds of amazing possibilities, will have begun. With that in mind, we’ve decided to share a submission by a guest writer that landed (very unexpectedly – THANK you, Julie) in our inbox a few days ago.

Tonight’s story is one that I’m sure many of you will relate to (perhaps not it’s finer points, but definitely it’s overall theme), as it highlights how hard facing the truth about what’s best for us can be – especially when you want what you want real bad.

Anyhoo, I won’t ramble on forever. So, on behalf of Sam, Elizabeth Rose and me…

Happy New Year everybody!

We’ll catch you all on the other side.

Have fun & play safe this Old Year’s Night,

SB

–

The Whole Package

by Julie Robinson

The first time Aaron tells me he loves me I have sex with him. The second time he tells me he loves me I beg him to stop—why can’t he continue loving me the morning after instead of denying it? The emboldened, heavy drinking Aaron and the distant, hung over Aaron have an equally strong magnetic pull.  Both need me in their own way.  There’s something very intoxicating about a lover who drinks with you.

This truism, tweeted my none other than the lovely Miss Taylor Cast a few months ago, is the first thing that came to mind as I read this story.

AARON: You know you will never be my girlfriend.

ME: I hate to break it to you—but I already am. We have a really nice bond, Aaron. Why keep fighting it?

AARON: I just don’t see you in that way, Julie. I could never take you around my friends. And my family?  Forget about it.

My poker buddy Aaron towers over me even when I’m in heels. He’s unemployed the spring we meet and I’m underemployed, so we show up at a local dive bar to play cards three nights a week. I like how he always brings me a beer without asking if I want one when he comes back to the table with his own fresh PBR. Night after night I listen intently to how much Aaron loves his ex-girlfriend, how hopeless he feels, how damaged he’s become, and how badly he wants her back. Instead of being put-off by these (and other) confessions, I convince myself that Aaron’s passion makes him a terrific prospect. Everything he says proves to me that this man loves boldly and that soon he will be directing that real, passionate love toward me.

When he tells me he’s ready for a girlfriend I’m skeptical and enthusiastic all at once. Then he asks me for a favor, and I agree to help my new lover write his online dating profile.

ME: (settling in at his computer) I definitely think you should mention something about having season tickets to the theater. Chicks love that.

AARON: I want to come off as passionate without being a pervert. We should mention that I’m a trained chef.

ME: Yes. I think your stint in the Caribbean is a good one too.

Writing—even something as short as an online profile—takes time if you want to get it right. Aaron grows bored as I tweak his profile. He leaves to buy a twelve pack of beer. We drink most of it and fall into bed together forgetting all about our mission for the evening.

When I awake early to put the finishing touches on Aaron’s profile, I don’t plan on learning his password. I don’t root around looking for it. I don’t have to. It’s just there in his open email smack dab in front of my face: bra**en1

The silly women he writes to regularly on Match.com don’t worry me in the slightest. He seems to enjoy flirting with one cowgirl about writing a screenplay together, but somehow her email responses get deleted before he reads them and she disappears. Another pretty little blonde receives an email from Aaron saying he’s met someone else. Funny how things like that happen.

My obsession begins to scare me, so I put limits on it. Instead of checking Aaron’s Match.com email account every time I think of it (it has a sneaky way of inching back into my head again, and again, and again), I promise myself only one time a day. I am very careful during our conversations not to mention the women I know about through my cyber spying. We are drinking buddies—shitfaced beyond standing—but I never slip. Not once. Instinctively, I know that if he ever finds out about my secret our affair, our friendship, our deepening bond, my drug of choice will be shot to hell.

AARON: Hey! I think I may have met someone. Thanks again for helping me with my online profile. It made all of the difference.

ME: Really? How did that happen?

AARON: I met her on Match. She’s really exotic and sexy. I can’t wait for you to meet her. I think you’ll really like her.

ME: (trying to ignore his lack of reception as I lean in for a kiss) I’m sure I will.

Racking my brain, I cannot figure out which one she is. Exotic? Sexy? They all seem like bimbos to me. I’m torn between stumbling back to my apartment so I can fall into Aaron’s arms and telling him to head on home alone so I can sort through his emails and figure out who this woman is. How did I miss this?

Aaron begins to fade away from my life as he spends more and more time with Exotic Girl, and the cloudy fuzz in my mind starts to clear. I go get professional help. My therapist tells me the same things my friends have for months, and it’s a relief that I can finally begin to listen. Why do I want to be with a man who only loves me when he’s drunk? Can I truly be happy with a man who is actively pursuing another woman while using me for sex? What do I really want to put my energy into?

Six months after Aaron moves on I invite him to join me for a game of poker at our old haunt. Surprisingly, he accepts.The room has a festive beehive hum, the PBR is plentiful and cold, and our sexual chemistry takes hold like a wrench pulling us closer and closer to one another. We both get knocked out of the poker game quickly so we can move to the patio and flirt shamelessly.

AARON: (putting his hand on my thigh) It is great seeing you again. I’ve missed you. You look great.

ME: Mmmm. So do you. It’s so much fun hanging out with you again.

AARON: I can’t wait to go home with you tonight. Get naked with you. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?

ME: (hesitating) I don’t think that’s going to happen, Aaron. . .

AARON: I know you want to. I know you can’t wait to rip off my clothes and get dirty with me. Like old times.

ME: I don’t want that—

AARON: (cutting me off) Yes, you do. . .

ME: No. I want the whole package.

I want the bow, the wrapping paper, and an introduction to your parents. I want the cherry on top. I want to be the woman you think about when you’re not really thinking about anything in particular. I want to be the woman on your arm who you are proud of introducing to your buddies and their wives. I want to wake up with you and not have an aching head. I want you to be the man you never will be. I want to be the woman of my dreams.

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