you are devil’s foreplay

Woke up to the sound of message coming in. It was Randy, texting that he’ll come today at 9pm to get his stuff. Okay. All was okay while I was home, doing my usual morning business and there were my cats and my sister.

Then I closed the door and almost immediately started to cry. Everything’s fucking mess and everybody are only making it worse.

I haven’t had a good nights sleep in… months, I figure. I don’t know how anymore. I start watching my clock at 5am and it goes on ’til 10am. I’m afraid I’ll sleep in. And when it is saturday I usually work too (in July I haven’t had any free weekend and it’s killing me. But I can’t do anything about it so… No need to whine. Right.

Came to work. Tried to talk. Mom called and I bitched wih her.

Went to cafeteria and cried in my food, partly because I couldn’t hold it anymore and partly because I always eat mash potatoes and fucking sauerkraut. And it made me so sad. Don’t know why.

Last night two of my friends managed to make me feel like a prostitute (two sepparate occasions) and that’s a new record I think.

I don’t think I’m able to go through today.

Today I had a time to think about various types of gynecologists. There are actually four types of those creepy doctors every woman needs to see approx. 30-40 times in a lifetime, probably more.

First, there are The Quiet Ones. I had a close encounter with that type today. This was a tall, bald russian man. Old. Very serious. Never looked at me, and when he talked, he talked to a nurse. So I had to figure out what I am suppose to do by his gestures. Well, fine enough. I’m not very chatty myself on that table, feet in the air and someone between my legs (who is not my boyfriend, f-buddy or some girl I have hooked up with - in that case I can be very chatty). But he was a real quiet case. Not a word. I had to make my own conclusions when he gave me a tissue after the exam was over. Like we had just had sex or something. And the ultrasound was the worst I have ever had - and believe me, during last two months I have had plenty. In the end I was sitting by the desk, he wrote something and suddenly just stood up and left. Just like that. Never saying a word. Then nurse told me, after I had asked, that all is fine and I may go.

Secondly, there are The Chatty Ones. The Chatty never shuts up. He or she makes lots of jokes to make you feel comfortable (at least that is what I assume). Talks about weather, your vagina, the last time he or she had seafood, her or his children… They are often friendly, but sometimes they give you that Creepy Vibe.

Thridly, there are The Bored Ones. I recently had a gyn who sighed. Like all the fucking time. At the end I was so desperate to ask wether he is really tired or has he lost someone, because I couldn’t take that sighing anymore. It was really freaking me out. And that one seemed to be gay, too, so I figured that when you are a gay working as a female doctor, it may make you sigh a lot… Seeing all those vaginas all day, secretly thinking about that hot young stud you picked up from Angel last Friday. The same doctor also forgot he had a meeting with me one morning, I was there at 8am and he arrived 9:40am. And when he last arrived I thought he just passes out, because he looked even more tired than last time.

But of course, there is one kind that is very rare - The Really Hot Ones. Some sources have said that they don’t even exist and are part of urban legends. But no, I can assure you, they DO exist and I have seen myself one really good specimen. He was gorgeous. And when i say gorgeous it really even doesn’t begin to describe him*. He was Abercrombie & Fitch model. He was Milo Ventimiglia and Adrian Grenier rolled into one big pie of a hunk. I later found out that he had also done a bit modelling job during his university days and the thought of running into him in some bar really freaks me out. Because what could you possibly say when you randomly start to flirt? “Remeber me, I was the girl on the bench few months ago?” - “Yes, you now seem a bit familiar, but I really can’t tell before you take your pants off.”

Yeah, I know. That was a really bad gynecologists’ joke, but I tell you. Guys looking like him should be banned working as gynecologists!

–

* I actually asked him why did he choose that profession (I was about to add that it might be understandable if he were gay). He answered me in his deepest maniac voice, I imagine: “Because I love operating!” He really sounded like Patrick Bateman and I told him so. He laughed.

One of the most embarrassing things for a women is going to a gynecologist. It is humiliating, it is perverse and oh, it is so neccessary. So, usually we don’t whine about it much, sometimes to our sweet girlfriends, but never, NEVER to a guy.

There is something about a stranger (much worse if it was a strange man!) looking at your vagina that makes guys so uncomfortable.

It’s not that bad though. I’ve grown to get use to it as long as I am sure I’m shaved correctly before the visit and I have a chance to “refresh myself” in the bathroom.

Going to a gyn is always such a mess. I start to prepare myself at least two days before. As much as I would like fantasies of playing doctor, in the gyn’s office it’s much rather other deal. I am scared. I am petrified. I make silly jokes. I try to put off going to The Bench as long as possible.

And everything is much worse when you gyn appares to be stunningly beautiful man. That was my last experience. And that was awful. Awful I say!

I’ve heard lots of crazy stories about gyns.

My own said to me when I was in my “tender age”, about 17. Picture it. Me on The Bench, she, hands deep in me. Me, staring celing, not trying to think about it. She, making weird sounds.

“Ugh. Ugh.”
“What? Is something wrong?” I finally asked.
“No… It’s just… It’s just that your vagina… It’s really, really long.”

Oh, tough luck honey. Maybe your fingers aren’t long enogh?

But there are more stories. One friend of mine claimed, that her gyn was doing her a pre-birth examination and said: “Well, too bad you’re having a baby. If I were the father it would look so much better. And oh, I know where the clit is!”

Apparently few years later I had a chance to sleep with that same gyn (he was armenian or something, really cocky and self-absorbed, I realised that he was the same gyn days later though) and let me tell you. He knew exactly where my clit was and tried to rub it off. It was horrifying.

But all in all after the visit to your gynecologist it’s always such a relief. Knowing you don’t have to visit him/her at least 6 months. And that all is in order, working properly.

Or not, which is an another story.

And yes, I have my gynecologist examination tomorrow.

Freaking a bit out, but all in all I’m fine. (And talking to Shane earlier realised that I haven’t had sex in very, very, very long time. That’s break up for you, kids.)

The Mountain is driving me nuts. For real, I am fucking happy that I soon don’t have to be in the same room with him every day. I tried to ignore him this morning and he came really close and dripped his sweat all over my workstation and my papers. I thought I would die. At this minute.

Then I dodged the bullet again when he tried to lure me into his cave with his funky catch phrase: “I ripped your piece and really loved it, but…” No buts, honey. Deal with it. It seemed he had a problem with the last sentence. I told him to delete it then. “But the story will not have an ending then…” he started to whine. I read it. “But the sentence before last is a good sentence to end the story with also, don’t you think?” Long silence. I assume he tried to read but didn’t find any familiar letters.

So, I escaped. And I have been sitting here all day doing nothing but avoiding him. Haven’t succeeded though - few minutes ago he came with a printout of my other story and asked where is it located, that he doesn’t find it anywhere. I stared at him for like three minutes, then sloooooowly raised my finger and pointed it on the paper, where I had written down the exact location of the file.

Damn him!

And I really haven’t worked today at all. First of all I’m hangovered (again, i know), because last night was the worst night in history. P. got hit by a car while driving here to see me and it was all really surreal.

His fine though, well, considering. Anything isn’t broken and internal organs are fine, but he’s cut and bruised and sewd back together and hurting and when I think about it I want to cry. Of course I haven’t slept at all, crazed of worry. Had nightmares and beautiful dreams too - P. was fine and came to visit me and it felt… good. Woke up to usual lunacy though.

Anyway, here are things that are driving me nuts these days:

• PK. He keeps calling me and I really am too scared to see him again. Last time he lost it, swore his undying love for me and tried to kill someone with an empty bottle. Yap. Not scary at all.
• My work computer. It keeps getting slower and slower and I hate that I don’t have admin-rights to make it all better.
• The Mountain. Oh, I hate The Mountain!
• City. I really would like to see my friends.
• My things. They are everywhere and cleaning up is something I’m not bothered to do at the moment.
• My hangovers. Why do I drink?
• My little sister Grace. She keeps hurting herself by seeing this one guy that is really bad for her. And I can’t do anything about it. If I had money I would try to buy him off. Everyone has a price. That is one thing P. has taught me.
• The guy who’s been writing me those nice and funny and cute letters. Found out there’s a girl. Of course. There is always a girl. He was too good to be true. But - continue writing with him though. He makes me feel all giddy, like i’m 15 again.
• My best friend Shane. She is always working and when she’s not working she is not in the city or when she is in the city she has stuff to do and no time to see me. I hate that. She’s Thelma to my Loise. I need to SEE her, not just hear her.
• The Mountain. I really hate him. And he just called me by my nickname which is so uncool. Sooooo uncool. I would like to kill him. But I’m afraid it’s really hard to find knives so long that will cut through him and unless I can’t chop him to little pieces I’m not going to bother.

But now I can sneak away, go home, have a dri… No! No drinks today! And sleep. And. Do stuff. No idea which stuff. But stuff nevertheless. Yay!

Today I slept in and arrived with the greatest hangover I have ever had of wine. And immediately discovered three main things:

1. I really hate The Great Mountain of Editorism. I really do hate him. I hate the way he talks, I hate the way he slowly wobbles through newsroom, swaying from side to side. And I hate that he doesn’t know what he is doing. One day he came to me, saying: “Okay, I’m now starting to rip (yes, he uses word rip like he’s fucking Editor the Ripper) you piece. Do you want to sit with me?” What? WHAT?! “Erm… I haven’t finished none of my works yet. What are you talking about?”

I soon figured out that one little piece, 900 charachters (! - avarage article is 4500-5500 characters long) short, was the one thing he was going to “rip”. Oh. My. God. That is just plain wrong. That is so wrong in so many levels that I can’t even begin to say all the reasons why it is wrong. First of all - my time is precious too. It’s not my JOB to sit with him and watch him work. I wouldn’t even mind if he wasn’t so fucking slow. He types with two fingers you know. And what the hell are you thinking wanting to edit someones direct speech? You DON’T editi direct speech! (Well, you do a little, but I hadalready done that little editing part.) Oh, fuck him. So, I sat here, listening to music so I didn’t have to hear him talk. That was the position Sean found me when he arrived - I had covered my ears with hand to smother everything coming from or about The Mountain. Sean, of course, being the lovely cucumber that he is, laughed his pants off.

2. You can get drunk on white wine and oh, you sure will have a hangover after to prove it. I don’t know what happend last night but for some reason I decided that it is good and healthy to open the second bottle of wine (had a typo here first - whine. Also good one:) whilst drinking online with my net-buddy. Not my best judgment though, I can say now. Anyway. Is it normal that I don’t remember last time I had drinks with real people but I really enjoy drinking online vith P.? Oh, well. At least we had loads of fun despite once or twice I flipped and cryed so hard I thought I will never stop. Thats drunken break up for you, kids.

3. I am the reason Sean argues with his wife more often. And it really stunned me. Apparently Sean had told her about the job offer I got yesterday (she is a journalist too) and she had snapped back: “Well, why don’t you marry her then?!” That is so totally weird, but on the other hand I can’t say I’m surprised.

We do spend a lot of time together. We work together really well - even our boss is sending us out more and more. Today she came and told us to think about some new experiment to do together, because “your duo works so well”! And we click, as i already said. He is cute and funny and there is that weird charm about him… He’s like a little boy who will never grow up but you can’t get angry at him. And well, he is such a slut. Just like me.

And it is said that you spend in the office most part of you day, isn’t it? So it’s not weird at all that you grow on somebody you see every day, have fun with every day and share interests.

And for some reason I can’t get that kissing thing out of my mind anymore. What the hell is wrong with me! He is getting married next summer on their 10th anniversary together. Fuck. I’m so twisted. I am even capable of falling in love only based on letters one guy sends me. But that’s another story. I have to work now. Or I will die of hangover. It’s one or the other. 

Today we were on a field with my favorite photographer/friend/collague/reporter Sean and some little girl who was helping us with our experiment. She is 12 and she is just adorable. I soon established that she is my new favorite girl since she was cute, funny, sooooo grown up and extremly witty. We were having loads of fun. Of course, she won me over in first 30 minutes, asking: “Are you always so fun?” And I melted, of course.

Anyway, when we headed back after lots of laughing hidden behind the car when our young friend was making her deeds we made her (for experiments cause, of course) and after hours of hitting each other with witty notes and making fun of each other, like we always do with Sean. We just… click, you know. But for arguments’ sake I have to say that he has a girlfriend of nine years and they are happy. In a sort of we-have-had-our-difficulties-but-we-still-like-our-old-familiar-selves-way.

Heading back we were talking about relationships. All three of us.

“So, well, you two are not together?” our young friend asked.
I started to laugh, Sean too.
“No, we are not.”
“What a pitty…”

Felt really uncomfortable and quickly started new conversation.

But sometimes I wonder. Is it possible to find someone to be with, that you are actually enjoying being with?

And I still haven’t told Sean that one time we have heavily made out when we were drunk as hell. I wonder does he remember.

I do.

For few weeks now we have this new editor. He has the weirdest ways of working - but don’t we all, right? Okay, I may be used to my Super Nitpicking Editor, who is my actual boss and always talks very quietly. And I may also be used to my Future-self Alcocholic Editor, with whom we go out several times a day, buy a long drink, sit and smoke. And laugh.

But with this man I am not used to yet and I sorta hoped I wouldn’t have to. But today he was at work helping out with that crazy weekend and since my colleague took his lovely time preparing photos and captions it took me too long to finally get to editing HIS text that when it came to final reading of my story, he was there. The Great Mountain of Editorism. Big, friendly, but sooooooo slow and… well, mömm.

Anyway, he has this weird habit of taking all the young reporters (let me remind you, I have been working there for a year and I plan on taking serious steps to being an editor myself, and it’s not like I haven’t edited like three books and was a news editor for a year), putting them sit next to him and sloooooowly talking them through their pieces, which, as I figure, are in many occasions so fucking boring anyway that they should rewrite them like 500 times. Anyway, it’s not my place to say, but sometimes I just wanna shout to all those dry pieces of fruit and biscuits working with us that for fuck’s sake, we work in fucking tabloid and it’s SUPPOSED to be fun and weird and all that.

So anyway, the Great Mountain asked me whether I would like to watch him editing my piece. I was pretty sure that it was almost ready to print but I’m not that cocky that I would think I write pure gold. And I was worried anyway that he would cut out all my jokes, irony and… well, style. Future-self Alcocholik Editor thought the same and she promised that if that’ll happen she would put all my jokes back in. So anyway I didn’t see any point sitting with him and I was kinda insulted that I’m treated like a high school kid who is working in a newspaper for a summer period.

But also I kinda hate that too if I give my story to editor and he or she will make a crap out of that and I have no control over it.

Anyway, there we were. The Great Mountain and me, yawning my jaws off because it has been a fucking long weekend and I really wanted to go home, have a beer and watch my new favorite, lesbian series The L Word.

And I mean, that editor is REALLY big. Huge. Large. Not so much fat per se, but he is just… huge. Takes up a lot of space.

We were arguing about one sentence and I was too tired to justify myself and he kinda had a point too. I was yawning again, like a millionth time and suddenly he said with his deep husky voice (and very slowly):
“You know, I studied psychology. And in one class I heard a story about a man. Postal worker, I think he was. And he was this rafined, nice man. Never made a fuss, was clean and tidy…”
“Yes?” I was thinking that maybe I stink after that long hot summer day and I REALLY didn’t want him to say anything.
“Anyway, he came home from work every day and neighbors were very curious. Every time he came home there were those weird noises coming from his apartment. And at last the secret reveiled itself: the man had a large wheel with pedals. He used to take himself naked, strap himself to that wheel and stroll around the flat. That was his way of getting sexual pleasure.”

Well. Okay.

Here are today’s lessons.

First of all: the greatest bicuits can have the greatest stories.

Secondly: you never know what people are doing when they’re alone and sometimes - you really don’t want to know.

And finally: never underestamate people working in tabloids. They are there for a reason.

Actually. He did gave me things. He has in several occasions bought me flowers. Mainly roses. And I have always said I hate roses.

Okay, I actually don’t hate roses. I just don’t like the way they are the first way out. And then, when he realized that I’m serious with that not liking roses thing, hed started buying me the weirdest flowers. Long sticks with a little puffy end. Weird branches with purple blossoms. And they all smelled like shit. Yes, I admit - I maybe would have liked those weird flowers if it wasn’t HIM who gave them. But it was. And I hated them. And no one understood what did I think with that when I mentioned that Randy never listsens. Never. They just shook their shoulders and were dissappointed in me. Because I should’ve been so happy, right?

Wrong.

All I wanted was bunch of tulips. Yellow, red, green, fucking purple - just tulips. I LOVE tulips.

“What are those?”
“Tulips,” I answered.
“WHO gave you those?!” He started getting angry and upset. Fucking jealousy. I hated that the most, I guess. But that is not the issue at the moment.
“What the fuck, Randy? Are you normal?! I, MYSELF bought them for me. Because I LOVE tulips! And I have always said that.”
“Oh… Okay. Are you sure?”

And on it went, every time. I bought myself tulips throughout winter and spring. Actually, come to think of it, I spend loads of money on it. Never mind, they were beautiful.

When someone came to visit us and they saw the flowers, they always smiled: “Awwww, isn’t that cute. He still buys you flowers… I wish I had someone to buy me flowers…”

Aww my ass. And every time I told them it was me who bought the tulips I loved seeing those confused faces. What…? How…? But you have a boyfriend to buy you… What? I don’t understand…?!

And do you know when was the time HE eventually bought me tulips?

When we were already broken up and he didn’t want to accept it. THEN he thought: oh, that’s right she likes tulips… Fucking tulips. 

Lameass reason, actually. Ranting about tulips. Oh, yeah, right. Here was a bigger point. He never listened, he heard only what he wanted to hear. Actually, him not listening is reason no 2, 3, 4, 5 and 27.

It was that evening I came home and realized I feel nothing for him. It was that evening when I arrived and they were there - my sister and him - at the door.

“Guess, what happend!” My sister Grace was excited.
“What?” I deducted that I was pretty bored and I really didn’t care. What is so important? Fuck you, I’m tired and sleepy and hungry and I wanna be left alone.
“Randy was hit by a car!” Her eyes sparkled. That excitment and fear and adrenaline you see on people’s faces who have just cheated death.

Right. My fianceé was just hit by a car. Checking feelings - there is none. Or maybe just boredom. I saw - he was still alive. So it can’t be that serious, right?

“Really?” I said. Trying to sound sincere. I put my bags down and hugged Randy. He seemed okay and I was still hungry and spleepy and fucking tired. But of course I had to show more. So I showed.
“Really?! How could this happen! Please, do tell me everything!” I think I wasn’t so sarcastic this time actually. But anyway. That’s what I thought. And I was curious.

And couldn’t stop thinking: why the hell didn’t it end more serious?

And I DO feel like shitty person for that. But only thing in my mind at that moment was… It would’ve been so good excuse to cancel the wedding.

I hate myself for that. That I could ever think that way.

But that should’ve been the first sign. Then it was two months to go. Two months. It seemed such a long time. I thought I can get over it. I can “restore” my feelings. I can get over it whatever it was, that was telling me: you can’t get married.

Because it was perfect. I was so lonely for so long. And then he came. We fell in love. And it was perfect. We were lying in bed and talking. I saw how my words made him feel. All my crazy adventures… And he loved me more for that. And his love fed my love. I fell more and more, deeper and deeper. It was a two-way-highway. I have never been in love to anyone who is in love with me at the same time.

It was magical.

And only 7 months later I couldn’t care less whether he was hit by a car or not.

It was national Women’s Day and he didn’t have a gift for me.
That would’ve been logical that I wouldn’t hold a grudge. Because he was hit by a car.

But I did.
I just needed one more reason.

And there it was. Reason number 1:
He never made me gifts. Any gifts.

Actually I should explain that he have made me some gifts. Some.

Once he had a present for me and it was a KinderSurprise - which I had wanted for like three months. Every time we hit a stores I yelled: “KinderSurprise! Oh, wouldn’t it be fun if I had one?”

Then he at last bought i for me.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t NEED gifts. I just like them. And on our fist few days together I gave him a vinyl. It was Pink Floyd’s. And it mend SO much for me. And I just thought that it would continue this way. That we’ll both give each other things that’ll matter.

Until I wrote him “10 reason I love you” and he even didn’t bother to answer.

I think I loved the thought about loving him. That I just needed someone to love and he just was there.

That is reason number 1. He never thought about things that he could give me to make me happy.

He never did gave me anything.