Sunday, Feb. 23, 2003
"Can I trust you?"

What was she asking me for? That question is usually a big flashing neon red flag. With my left hand on her breast, I took a moment to finesse my reply.

Ahem. Trust is quantitive. Not qualitative.

She stared at me, blinking. Then she dropped her gaze to the bowls of angel food cake and melting vanilla ice cream on the coffee table. Vanilla. She is so fucking vanilla. Except that ass. Like a car trunk fresh from the autobody shop, she wears that backside with a chocolate primer in stark erotic contrast to her otherwise vanilla paint job.

I have the habit of answering the simplest questions with puzzling responses, just to be equally annoying. But she never catches on that I do it because I find her thought process painfully simple and hopelessly naieve.

"Are you going to eat me?" whines the sheep.

"Why ... of course not," grins the wolf. "I just want to get to know you better."

It seems I've had this conversation a thousand times with anyone from girlfriends to lovers, fuck buddies, colleagues, classmates, supervisors or any other character role in my life. Everyone phrases it differently. Everyone wants the same thing. In a presumptuous arrangement, generally regarded as a chore rather than a functional relationship, we all make that plea with the lesser evils of our social network. Tiffany, without understanding it, was making that plea with me. "Please be that singular external source of validation that makes me feel secure in all ways mental, emotional and physical so I can unload my baggage at your feet and shit on your head when you fail my expectations!"

Fuck the fuck off.

She thought about quantitive versus qualitative with those telling vocal indicators of deep thought. "Hmmm..." "Huh." "Uhhh..." Then she looked, not at me, but toward the ceiling, with her face all scrunched up as if she were staring at the sun. "What do you mean?"

Kee-rist. Couldn't we just go upstairs and fuck, please? Better yet, why don't you go into the dining room, hike that beautiful summer dress around your waist and lean over the table? Show me those gelatinous gluteus party cushins for which I so tirelessly endure this charade! The sooner I cum, the sooner we can go to bed, the sooner it'll be morning, the sooner you'll leave!

Trust, I told her, isn't an all-or-nothing kind of deal. Everyone proves their worth of a certain level of trust. You just need to know how to quantify their actions affecting you as a sum of your trust in them.

Even the people I don't like very much still have my trust in some regard. Just because I don't like the silly cable access preachers doesn't mean I don't trust them to be courteous and respectful when we meet at the station. Those cowboy christians, on the other hand, lost any trust I might have had in them as human beings when they introduced themselves as superior people based on the kind of show I produce out there. That, and the fact that they provide a platform for Oregon's leading christian supremacist - fresh out of jail, I might add.

On a trust scale of zero to one hundred,
preachers: three;
cowboy christian supremacists: zero.

"...yeah..." Okay, the water just wasn't making it to the faucet.

We all trust some people more than we trust others, right? We also trust the same person on some level, while holding none for that person on another level. I trust Sean to always be honest with me, one hundred percent, but only when he chooses to speak up. Even then, only in private. On the other hand, I don't trust him to commit to, nor follow through with his delusions of making a film. He's broken that trust before, and until he makes good on his word, that's an issue on which I don't trust him.

Karyn was a person I never fully trusted in any personal sense. Although she would always follow through with her plans, schedules and work-related commitments, I spent three years of my life knowing she was someone I would never entrust with my feelings, insecurities, self doubt; to honor my values and beliefs, my history, the dynamics of my family; least of all, to be honest with me.

Sean: eighty-five.
Karyn: sixty at the time (the sex was that good); five now.

Then I thought of the sliding-scale measure of trust. Jane inspires a level of trust as high as Angela - almost - but her responsibilities in my life are different. Over the years, they are the two I've learned to trust most, yet neither of them achieve full points. No one does. Only that idealistic goddess of my wildest imagination.

It's nice to allow myself these mental explorations while Tiffany stares at me, as blank, lifeless and void of expression as a pull-string talking doll. But I know better than to waste the moment on her.

I can't answer that for you, I said. You have to decide that for yourself.

After a split second of processing she stood up, yanked her dress to her thighs and straddled my lap. She leaned in close, wrapped her arms around my neck and pressed her forehead to mine, all while staring me dead in the eyes. Is this the part where she grinds her pelvis, licks my gums and says goodbye? I could feel her breath on my lips.

"I trust you."

I cupped a breast in each hand. Then how's about you slide your clothes off and meet me upstairs?

"Not until you've seen all the costumes I brought for you."

Like masterbating with a cheese grater. Slightly amusing. Mostly painful.

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