subversives

the following is my one hundredth [public] entry. a fete finally realized after all these years of typing and deleting. it’s my semiotic for the modern girl, vision blurred through a martini glass, hands folded in lap, lips lined with verbosity, chic-y, chic-y love letter. addressed to: “the boy with the endless amount of fists between his teeth,” and signed the only way I thought fit: ambiguity. what I’ve realized from all these years of online journal writing: always leave something for paper.

Subversives

            dearest  mister _____-_______-______,

Being completely naked had its benefits. I would not be in a situation where I was ever too hot and if I was ever too cold there was enough skin-on-skin poses to warm my frame. The sigh of content when he realized there’s no bra to unhinge, no snap to undo. The sigh on my face when there’s no over-the-calf, over-the-heel fumble of panties, the silent nod of access to just over, climb-up and slip in. The infinite amount of arm-on-chest, leg-over-thigh, head-under-breast positions to obtain after the three-hour session of what we’ll now refer to as “contact.”

Being completely naked had its drawbacks. I was exposing the not so nice parts of my body, which were mostly above the knee and below the neck. The inconvenient patches of hair lining here or forming there, that were too out of reach to shave. The stretch-mark hip or the rash that forms between your thighs on a moist day or that goddamn inked scar of vertebrae on the small of your back, a product of too drunk a blurry night with the girls.

Being three thousand miles away had its moments. The simultaneous cigarette break, the early morning fuck, and lunchtime fuck. The brushing your teeth together / going to the bathroom with the door open / past midnight fuck followed by a feverishly long shower, kind of comfort.  The so unknown comfort you can understand as incredible only if you were seventeen and arrived at this disposition by way of aircraft, flying alone for the first time, with an excuse of nothing more then the desire for ‘a better peak at the pacific.’

Being in love had its tendencies. A quick-wit remark most likely in a coy and playful manner over an argument about this pretentious band over another was an answer rather then a fight on the bus in a transit system I knew little about. A punch in the arm or a turn of the head was easily a way of saying “I don’t feel like being groped in public right about now.” A fetal-position kept for a half hour in his direction before he even hit the bed was a way to declare “yes, I want to be held tonight,” and, a collage of eyeliner and wet eyes on my cheeks, but saying nothing was my affirmation to him that “I do really love that face you make when you’re pissed off. I do really adore that smirk and air of callousness you hold so well when you’re too pompous to admit I’m right. I do really appreciate the way you are always holding my hand when I’m nervous. I don’t underestimate our time together. I am really wrecked about leaving you.”

Being completely naked with him sounds pleasurable right about now.

sincerely,
love always,
yours truly,
and other trite goodbyes…

           miss ______-_____.