Thursday, Mar. 27, 2003
Down time. I've been trying for three fucking days to write something. I think I've been trying too hard to shape my thoughts into something I myself would want to read. I forget about the exercise of stream of consciousness.

Greg loaned me the Criterion edition of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and over the three weeks it took me to watch the two-disc set, I kept hearing the question have you read the book? So now I'm reading the book. Taking my time with the book. Savoring the flavor. Thompson's style of streaming semi-consciouness puts me in a nervous panic when I sit in front of the blank screen.

It's been a month since that dreaded Valentine's Day weekend with Tiff. And she has still not called. It only just occurred to me that her birthday was Tuesday. Thank gawd for these five weeks of silence. How would I have gotten out of another torturous evening had I answered the phone if she'd called? Or two evenings? One with her friends, Lambda, Lambda, Lambda & Omega Moo; and another of her smothering me under unimaginitive, uninspired, unpracticed "love" making?

I'm finally past that initial two-week stage of worrying about her. In my head I had been writing a break up speech, trying hard to keep it within the narrow confines of the truth, however brutally honest.

Tiffany, I think we should just relax and be friends before this whole thing gets way out of control and one of us ends up getting hurt. We have to be realistic. We're not going to have a long-term relationship based on sex. And we can't make this relationship more than what it is because you are entirely too immature for me. I think you have a lot of growing up to do before you're ready for the kind of relationship you want. Or something like that. I thought about explaining how her sense of being is way out of sync with her peers and with the behavior of emotionally balanced twenty-six year olds. Ferfucks sake, at her age, the "My Little Pony" collection is a frightening indication that something is very, very wrong with that girl.

But now I'm over that worry. She hasn't called. I haven't called. I'd like to think that she understands there's no need to have that conversation. The break up talk. And I think she does. That's what not calling means. That is the conversation. Or maybe the conversation took place before that, the morning after, when I was trying not to wake up before she left for work.

There was something in the tone of her voice, a very matter-of-fact Bye, Dan. Not see you later. Not I'll call you. I vagely remember some discussion of catching a movie the following week. But that was before the Bye, Dan. I've heard that tone before. The subtle communication in female language that is unmistakably clear, if you know how to listen for it. Men do not speak in such tones.

She was dressing for work. I rolled over and squinted, catching her slide into a blue thong. She turned away to find her bra, burried somewhere amidst the various pieces of costuming she'd moddled for me the night before.

With each outfit she impersonated a different character, offering her body through roleplaying. Like my own personal live porno. First the bikini, which I had specifically requested to satisfy a certain fantasy I'd been harboring since that summer's day almost seven years ago at the beach with Karyn and Alex. Then she appeared in a sheer pink teddy and matching dental floss panties. Next, an ankle-length wrap around and belly-dancer jinglies. She gave me private dances in the living room while I lounged on the couch in silk boxers. Each strip tease lasted about five minutes before she was in my lap again, mouthing me with all the enthusiasm of a sleeping fish.

I have to say it was a night I will remember during the many inevitable lonely nights to come. Nonetheless, a night I won't often think of. No more than I would think of any porn flick I've seen. It was more work than play. How could I enjoy an entire evening/night with someone who announces her beginning of a "deep" conversation be declaring all religions ought to be treated the same. In what regard was not attatched to that particular thought, nor any other idea. But it was a deep thought, for Tiffany.

When I'd returned from the bathroom, she was pulling a tight cotton blouse down over the top of her colorfully plaid stretch cotton pants. I practiced a breathing routine and some mental exercises I'd learned in acting class to remove my mind from the sudden rush of desire. At the front door... I can't even remember if we kissed. The last I saw of her was the image of her phat plaid junk bouncing to her car. My OHP (On Hold Pussy) hung up on me. That's fine. I was getting too lazy in the routine of groping her at the door and screwing mechanically until finding more satisfaction in jerking off.

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