Addicted to attention, Addiction, Bad Influences, essays, Sex, Texting, Want Monster, Writing

Return of the Want Monster


Connecticut is going to IKEA with a friend this evening, and I ask him to please text me pictures of pieces of furniture he would like to do me on. He complies, and then sends me an actual dick pic (not shot at IKEA.   That would be insane). A dick pic! What have I done to this shy person? Just last month he was still hugging me like we needed to save room for a Bible, and now he’s documenting erections and one-upping me on the filth I send him on my lunch hour.

He also sent me a text a few days ago in which he thanks me for reconnecting him to his humanity. I think by humanity he means getting blow jobs, but I am glad that this is working for him and that so far I am not making him miserable. Suddenly, after months of chasing him, he likes me; I can tell he likes me, but it feels like someone just handed me something heavy and valuable and slippery, and I’m nervous.

Getting Connecticut in my bed doesn’t feel like I thought it would. I thought I would finally feel contented; I thought it would be a break from the tireless want that constantly ruins everything like a spoiled child pointing at things in a store and yelling. But this doesn’t feel like contentment. Instead, I feel dizzy and glutted, like if you drank wine with bourbon or ate a fistful of gummy bears with piece of cheesecake. It’s too much sweet. It’s too much.

Also, there are scheduling problems, already. I go to see my parents for the Easter weekend, which just leaves Friday, and this is why it’s tough to really be involved with more than one person. Because sometimes you only have one night free, and then it becomes painfully clear who you like best.

It’s Sketch, it’s always Sketch, Sketch forever.  I go uptown to see him and put my phone on airplane mode so Connecticut can’t text at an inopportune moment, and Sketch and I walk across Central Park to go see the Edvard Munch exhibit at the Neue Gallery. I identify not with “The Scream” but with “Puberty,” Munch’s painting of a round-eyed, naked girl sitting on a bed, an enormous phallic shadow menacing the wall behind her. And walking home Sketch makes me laugh and I can’t stop admiring the way his shoulders fill out the back of his shirt, a back I want to climb up on like a raft, but there is this thing that’s going on in my life now and here we are not talking about it. And it makes me feel far away from him, like his voice is coming at me through a tube. In the morning we will have coffee at City Kitchen with three of his friends, two of whom want to sleep with him. One of the women calls him sweetheart. A long time ago she was the mistress of someone famous; she has the best ass I’ve ever seen. When she tells him goodbye, she tells him that she loves him, and I know I have forfeited any right to be jealous, but I am, and he’s not even sleeping with any of these people, at least not that he’s told me.

He doesn’t belong to me, and I don’t belong to him, and no one belongs to anyone, and I take my phone off airplane mode so I can see what Connecticut has texted me, and I kind of feel better for a moment until I realize that this is what coping looks like.   I am getting enough to get by, but this is not what I pictured for myself, not at all. My friend Jocelyn asks me over dinner, “In an ideal world, who would it be?” Something I am learning is that no one can handle your lack of monogamy, and I’m finding it hard to even talk about Connecticut with people, without feeling sort of apologetic and sheepish.

Time is limited, and energy is limited, and after a long holiday weekend with family I just want Sketch. I change the sheets before he comes over, because someone else has been here, and it’s impossible for this not to make me feel profligate and seedy, and he gets down with me on my new rabbit sheets. Some of the rabbits have sweaters. One is a wearing a scarf. One is turned the wrong way.

Am I turned the wrong way? I’m not even sure what the markers are for the wrong way, but I am being reminded this week that getting what I want is not necessarily the thing that makes me happy. Getting what I want doesn’t stop me from wanting something else, something different.

The next day I have one of those 12 step meetings to go to; I’m impressed that I’ve made it through the last few days without getting into my mother’s Xanax or turning up at some bar with my wallet and my bottomless supply of want, and so I can hardly begrudge the time I have to spend in church basements to make that happen. But because the recovery rooms are basically high school, I’m in a fight with someone there and now I don’t want to go. Connecticut goes with me and sits on my left and my leg drifts in his direction until it finds him, warm, on the other side of my jeans. He found a book of weird John Shirley stories for me at the Strand. It is a specifically thoughtful gesture, precisely the correct gift for me.

The argument rages inside my body about whom I am supposed to love, where I should be spending the energy that I have left, and the most convincing argument for Connecticut is that he is there, showing up next to me when I need him.

And Sketch is far away. The messages I get remind me of the texts I sometimes get from Lovesick, in Paris. Lovesick messages me this week, and we compare the states of high terrorist-alert in our respective cities this week. It’s raining in New York, I tell him. It’s raining in Paris too, he reports.  Sketch sends me a message in between art school and yoga, but when I call him, he does not call me back. It’s a good thing I like his back so much. I can see it now, retreating.


11 thoughts on “Return of the Want Monster

  1. Moniarnett says:

    I will probably Google IKEA at some point, lol My “happy place” now NC-17. You are mighty and awesome. I know the love dice will roll in your favor. Even if your dice are those 12 sided Dungeons & Dragons kind (; Luv your blog dearly.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. It is interesting to read about your life, especially contrasting it with my near-monastic one. I’m reminded of a scene from A Fish Called Wanda. In one scene, two lovers are moving through the dramatic stages to culminate in wall-banging, bed-crashing sex. In a counterpoint scene, John Cleese is preparing for his single-bed sleep with his wife getting ready for her neighboring single bed. It is all very civilized. I don’t know that I could find the energy to juggle as many romantic interests as you do, but I can enjoy it vicariously. (Does that make me a digital voyeur?)


    • I have tried to reply to your comment like three times!! I don’t know what is happening with my phone. My love life is exhausting, and when I get into bed at night I can’t sleep, my eyes as big as doorknobs. It’s not the best. Trust me, there’s a lot to be said for less varied romantic interests. Anyway, I really, really appreciate you reading and taking the time to comment.

      Liked by 1 person

  3. This is most def my favorite post so far Tips. It starts out so hilariously funny and then eases into other emotions. It’s really a beautiful read. Maybe because you describe a lot of how I feel about the love/dating/fucking scene even if the situations aren’t (always) the same. I want to print out all of your posts and make them into my own little book. You are incredible.

    Two other things: First, I’m feeling much better. I realized I didn’t answer you on my post. Thanks for asking. And then second, do you have an Instagram? I feel like yours would be awesome!!


      • Holy crap that’s totally what I was thinking! Consider it done!!!
        Your social media comment made me chuckle. Altho I do love the accounts of nake men that I follow. A wonderful surprise when they pop up on my feed throughout the day.


    • They are dumb! Yesterday I saw a whole group of people on the subway wearing backpacks on their chests. Frigging tourist-weirdos.

      But it’s hard to be OK with wanting what you want. Also, what I want is ridiculous, because I really want Sketch and Connecticut to be friends and to coordinate in my care and feeding. And this is literally insane, which is why I have only told you, Judofunk. Happy Thursday.


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