FIND MY/SELF COMFORTING
- (story by Bella)
More often than not, Ill find myself comforting Julia. Sometimes when shes asleep, sometimes on waking. Shell get That Look and Ill know she needs my reassurance. Julias 31, see. And Im her 25-year-old boyfriend.
Yeah.
Put the white light around you, Ill whisper to her in the middle of the night. Her body shaking, shell wake up clutching me, as if in a death throe, shell peer into me, wide-eyed, breathless, with the kind of asynchronous gasps one might have while coming, hard.
I cant fix her, I know this. I resolved after my last girl, Bennie (suicidal and a self-cutter), that theyd have to do their own saving, no matter how much I love them.
We dont have sex. Im still a virgin.
Yeah.
Looking down at my right thigh, faintly red claw marks gracing them (some bad dream or other Julia must've had....I'm telling her, the night tremors, they arent you. They arent real. Its okay. Sometimes Ill cradle her, or rock her, or reason with her enough that she can go back into a sound sleep for the rest of the night.
Shes precious, you know, truly. I think my comforting her so helps me more than anything. SHEs the one in therapy. Me, Im the dutiful boyfriend. The comforter. The nurturer.
If Im having particularly creative moments in our tiny kitchen, clanging the pots about and such, Ill have to watch the noise bit. It sparks bad memories for her. She goes restless and sets to panic.
***
Last Memorial Day, our nextdoor neighbors had the most unapologetically obnoxious party, ever. I had to check us into a motel by the beach.
She sat in the corner, shivering uncontrollably, Im packing a little overnight case for us both with our particulars, my adrenaline going, upper slip sweat beginning to crest, loudly telling her, insistent, ITS GOING TO BE OKAY. WERE GETTING OUT OF HERE SOON. Soon, Sweetie. Soon. We hurry to my compact car, I help her in, she doesnt quite relax until she clutches my hand for dear life, and were rolling down Pacific Coast Highway, reconciling our own heart arithmetic and abstract logic in our heads
Once checked into the motel, Julia doesn't want to be inside. So I fix up a blanket with a couple of the pillows from where we're staying. We sit outside on the sand, ocean waves heaving sighs, relieved. Full water Godpower revving up, we sit there, forced to sooth ourselves, thoughts and mindsets entraining, to hum silently along with the oceans own music.
She lays her head down in my lap.
I become erect. For me, this is quite rare. Pubescent and embarrassed, I tell her, these kinda things have their own will, you know? We giggle. Suddenly, her visage is so solemn. Serious. Damning. She sits up and cradles my hard in her hands. I soften again. She falls asleep again, in my arms.
I stare into the dark night, the ocean Im guessing is still just as blue as I always remember it.
The girl shifts in my arms and I flash back to Bennie...Bennie was a dancer at Cheetah's when I met her, you know. She used makeup to cover up the cuts and her self-fashioned bruises. She wanted to be my first, and she found my limp dick to be a frustrating distraction from her own self injury.
"What a waste of a big penis!" she'd growl, sort of kidding. She'd even try to jerk me off in my sleep, to no avail. I've blocked out the horrid names she used to call me. Call IT.
Yeah.
I lie to myself sometimes. I feel as though my lovingkindness, my bottomless well of compassion and sweetness, nuzzling, coos and stroking her hair, I feel as if it just might fix us.
Baudelaire had written that big city life is a constant shock. The exhaust fumes, and the pace, and the noise. The childhood smacks and arguments, name-calling and shit-talking in the other room, the school bullies and the agonizing bus-rides, from one box to another--we grow up and we do this same thing when we find jobs...
Why wouldn't I want to care for a fellow post-traumatic baby, in my arms? Lull that false sense of security into a safer, saner one?
What's so wrong about the brokenness? The "isness" of our being half-finished?
What's so wrong about loving each other in our own form and time, here and now?
- (story by Bella)
More often than not, Ill find myself comforting Julia. Sometimes when shes asleep, sometimes on waking. Shell get That Look and Ill know she needs my reassurance. Julias 31, see. And Im her 25-year-old boyfriend.
Yeah.
Put the white light around you, Ill whisper to her in the middle of the night. Her body shaking, shell wake up clutching me, as if in a death throe, shell peer into me, wide-eyed, breathless, with the kind of asynchronous gasps one might have while coming, hard.
I cant fix her, I know this. I resolved after my last girl, Bennie (suicidal and a self-cutter), that theyd have to do their own saving, no matter how much I love them.
We dont have sex. Im still a virgin.
Yeah.
Looking down at my right thigh, faintly red claw marks gracing them (some bad dream or other Julia must've had....I'm telling her, the night tremors, they arent you. They arent real. Its okay. Sometimes Ill cradle her, or rock her, or reason with her enough that she can go back into a sound sleep for the rest of the night.
Shes precious, you know, truly. I think my comforting her so helps me more than anything. SHEs the one in therapy. Me, Im the dutiful boyfriend. The comforter. The nurturer.
If Im having particularly creative moments in our tiny kitchen, clanging the pots about and such, Ill have to watch the noise bit. It sparks bad memories for her. She goes restless and sets to panic.
***
Last Memorial Day, our nextdoor neighbors had the most unapologetically obnoxious party, ever. I had to check us into a motel by the beach.
She sat in the corner, shivering uncontrollably, Im packing a little overnight case for us both with our particulars, my adrenaline going, upper slip sweat beginning to crest, loudly telling her, insistent, ITS GOING TO BE OKAY. WERE GETTING OUT OF HERE SOON. Soon, Sweetie. Soon. We hurry to my compact car, I help her in, she doesnt quite relax until she clutches my hand for dear life, and were rolling down Pacific Coast Highway, reconciling our own heart arithmetic and abstract logic in our heads
Once checked into the motel, Julia doesn't want to be inside. So I fix up a blanket with a couple of the pillows from where we're staying. We sit outside on the sand, ocean waves heaving sighs, relieved. Full water Godpower revving up, we sit there, forced to sooth ourselves, thoughts and mindsets entraining, to hum silently along with the oceans own music.
She lays her head down in my lap.
I become erect. For me, this is quite rare. Pubescent and embarrassed, I tell her, these kinda things have their own will, you know? We giggle. Suddenly, her visage is so solemn. Serious. Damning. She sits up and cradles my hard in her hands. I soften again. She falls asleep again, in my arms.
I stare into the dark night, the ocean Im guessing is still just as blue as I always remember it.
The girl shifts in my arms and I flash back to Bennie...Bennie was a dancer at Cheetah's when I met her, you know. She used makeup to cover up the cuts and her self-fashioned bruises. She wanted to be my first, and she found my limp dick to be a frustrating distraction from her own self injury.
"What a waste of a big penis!" she'd growl, sort of kidding. She'd even try to jerk me off in my sleep, to no avail. I've blocked out the horrid names she used to call me. Call IT.
Yeah.
I lie to myself sometimes. I feel as though my lovingkindness, my bottomless well of compassion and sweetness, nuzzling, coos and stroking her hair, I feel as if it just might fix us.
Baudelaire had written that big city life is a constant shock. The exhaust fumes, and the pace, and the noise. The childhood smacks and arguments, name-calling and shit-talking in the other room, the school bullies and the agonizing bus-rides, from one box to another--we grow up and we do this same thing when we find jobs...
Why wouldn't I want to care for a fellow post-traumatic baby, in my arms? Lull that false sense of security into a safer, saner one?
What's so wrong about the brokenness? The "isness" of our being half-finished?
What's so wrong about loving each other in our own form and time, here and now?
VIEW 10 of 10 COMMENTS
I'd exchange writing with you except for one thing - mine sucks. I don't show it to people. I'm too shy for that. Your writing, however, is wonderful.