MY KIND OF LOVE
Happy Valentine’s Day!!! Oh baby, here it comes! Dressed in crinkling red cellophane with its bloated, chocolate-dipped expectations...and its inevitable grim disappointments.
Every year I go through the same maddening inner dialogue. It starts out defiant: “Fuck Valentines Day! I don’t need a blinking DAY to tell ME how to LOVE!” Then as it gets closer, I get a little defensive: “Man...I should do SOMETHING... get him some flowers, write him a nice card...dinner? Shit, why do I have to do anything? I ALWAYS do stuff.” Then, around the 12th of February, I start to hate my boyfriend. “Fucker. He isn’t going to do anything, I KNOW it...he NEVER does. I do so much for him and he just takes takes TAKES...I should just leave.” The awful day comes and goes with an awkward exchange of half-assed written Fred Meyer Valentine’s cards, a flower he stole, and probably an argument after our “nice romantic, ’specially-for-him-to-show-off-how-much-better-I-am-at-being-thoughtful, you fuck” dinner.
Nice. Nice freakin’ holiday.
This year I’m going to consciously and continuously acknowledge My Kind Of Love. I will celebrate the flawed, fun and filthy sense of intimacy I share with my sweetheart. My Kind Of Love is certainly not fit for TV. You can have those gorgeous and squeaky-clean models who glowingly exchange diamonds and cars and have sex front ways not sweating or queefing in bed. Keep ‘em—they all leave me dry.
The most romantic thing my boyfriend ever said to me was he loved holding me so much, he wanted to cut me up and wear me. On the phone recently, after I was nearing the end of a ten-day road trip, I asked him what he wanted me to do to him when I got home...we had been sending each other photos of our genitals to show how much we missed each other...he said in a murderous whisper, “I just want you to lay there and look scared.” With that I shouted that I would love him forever and would he like to be my first husband. THAT’S love.
When we first got together, in the throes of the first blush of falling in love...you know, when you just fuck, pretty much nonstop and everywhere possible...my body looked like I had passed out naked in bear country sprinkled with potato chips. Bitten, bruised and clawed raw, we had sex like it was a fierce battle of who can out-fuck whom...we both won and lost equally. THAT’S romance.
Some women, and even a few men, have a laundry list of what they need to get into sex and ultimately get off. In the saddest of cases, the women think that vanilla candles, Norah Jones and tender, loving words will curl their toes, yet they are still left unsatisfied.
That’s just horrible. Again, the awful influence of advertising and selling what love and intimacy should look like, swelling our already-ridiculous expectations.
You want to know what intimacy looks like? Me with gas and a couple of Bioré blackhead strips glued across my nose and chin, fucking my boyfriend like a prisoner ’til I come screaming and farting and we both laugh collapsing in a heap. THEN when he won’t go get me some water, I call him a fag and fart on his leg. THAT’S intimacy.
How about the morning wood, dick-in-the-back scenario? Most long-term relationship veterans have their own way of dealing with that demanding, painful erection most guys get early mornings. If you’re like me, it takes you a bit longer to get going out of a dead sleep. So, sometimes I just push my bare backside into that drum-tight exclamation point and yawn, “Go ahead and take one, baby.” And he does, like a dog takes the strip of fat off your steak without hesitation (or chewing). Later on I e-mail him or text him that he owes me and had better watch some Internet porn and get some sick ideas before he gets home...’cause he owes me. THAT’S trust.
Take your love in whatever form it exists and celebrate it daily—I know you do in your own way. Let the phony pageantry of Valentine’s Day pop and fade into what we’re all really waiting for…SPRING! Love to you all...My Kind Of Love...or yours.