Connecticut, the love of my life, describes the size of his dick as average, and that’s when I realize I have no idea whatsoever what that means anymore.
My frame of reference is completely bent; I no longer know from normal. My ex-boyfriend Sketch has one of those dicks you tell your friends about in the hushed tones reserved for talking about men who come with a kickstand. The kind of dick to launch a blog over. Big. Too big for me, if I’m being totally honest. I know they say all cars fit in the garage, but I suspect that they are men who’ve never had something rammed against their cervix a few hundred times like a medieval war instrument.
A few weeks ago, back before I decided to stop making the same mistakes, I was over at Sketch’s studio, and he was telling me something I wasn’t particularly interested in, and eventually he asked why I was so distracted. He wasn’t wearing any pants, and even flaccid, there is a lot of him to consider. I told him truthfully that I was thinking about his dick, and he got annoyed. He says I’m too obvious sometimes.
I get home from Greece this week and Connecticut comes over to return my pet rabbit. He babysat her while I was away, because he’s a an actual nice person that you can trust with things. Upstairs, the rabbit does frantic homecoming laps of the familiar furniture, and Connecticut takes me to bed, and we don’t climb out until many, many orgasms later, when it is dark and my hair is a storm cloud, and we’re both so dehydrated that our legs cramp. Is it average to have four hours of sex on a Tuesday? I have a suspicion that the answer is no, but this is exactly how much attention I require. I also need sleep, jet-lagged all the way to my soul, but still we reach for each other, for one more orgasm, begging the clock for a few more minutes. In between rounds, we trade minutiae of the day, swap jokes. Why does a walrus like Tupperware? Answer: he’s always looking for a tight seal. I don’t want him to leave. I wrap my yoga-solid legs around him and squeeze. A tight seal.
He tells me that while I was in Greece, he went out with a girl for coffee. Sort of a test, he says. He’s trying to feel around the outlines of this unconfirmed, unlabeled relationship we have, to see what his own boundaries are. Does he want other people? I just want you, it’s mostly just you, he says in the dark.
I check to see if I am jealous of his coffee date, and I am not. Mostly. Mostly just you. That’s how I feel too. I called Sketch after I got back from Greece, and he bailed on a meeting to come out and talk to me. We exchange rapid-fire news until he has to go back in, promising to call me later. He doesn’t, and that’s fine, because I am in bed trying for a new record with Connecticut. After a certain number of orgasms, it kind of starts to hurt a little. And still, I need his skin on my skin, his body rocking mine.
It’s mostly Connecticut, and we are sliding towards a label here, but I will see Sketch on Saturday, and I haven’t decided if I will sleep with him or not. I can’t get right with the thought that I may be saying goodbye to his ridiculously outsized penis. Or, of course, to him. When I think about not talking to him anymore, I feel the way you would feel if you had to watch your childhood home burn to the ground. It’s not that I needed to live in that place, it’s just that’s the place where I learned to write my name, where I keep all the totems of my smaller, clumsier self.
But it doesn’t matter. Sketch asked me a long time ago, back when we decided to see other people but to still sleep with each other, to let him know if things change, and things have changed.
I still haven’t told Connecticut that I love him; I may end up telling Sketch first. It would be easier, in some ways, to tell Sketch.
What I have with Connecticut is not an average relationship, but then my average relationship was always purportedly monogamous, the kind of monogamy where you claim someone hard and fast right up front at the beginning, mine, the way some kids will lick an entire candy bar so no one else can ask for a bite. My average relationship: a chocolate shell of promises filled with a creamy nougat of serial cheating. Greedy and impatient, I’ve cheated on most of the people I’ve called boyfriends. Sketch has the same issue; we told one another right up front all those years ago, when we first met—I’m bad at fidelity.
Connecticut isn’t demanding monogamy. He’s not demanding anything. But I love him, and it makes me want to do things for him that are hard, like go out on epic quests where I wrestle sea monsters, or tougher still, where I don’t sleep with everyone. Behind his back, I secretly call him my boyfriend. He tells me that he told his dad about me, and I am inordinately proud of this fact, that someone’s dad knows my name. We tell each other: you are my favorite.
The things other people call normal can feel strangely subversive. Connecticut comes over on a Monday after work, and takes off his tie while I finish making dinner, and I may as well be wearing a latex tuxedo and a strap-on for how perverted and strange it feels, to do these regular domestic things. Part of my personality looks on in horror and dismay, wondering what is happening here, where I have gone and when I will be coming back, and also why I am smiling so much these days.
They say the definition of insanity is repeating the same things and expecting different results. A friend of mine has it needlepointed on a pillow: Make better mistakes tomorrow.
I want to tell you something, I tell him after dinner. But I want to tell you in my room, in bed. I want to tell him in the dark: that I don’t mean it anymore, what I told him two months ago about not wanting to be in a relationship, with him or with anyone. Things are different now, I tell him. Because I love you.
Is it an average thing, to simply find someone you want to cook dinner for and be naked with, who will tell you that they love you too? Who will love you even after you declare that you are a monster, one who still wants to fuck girls and who thrives on attention from men like it’s sunlight, who hasn’t quite let her ex go all the way, who ruins things, who is crooked and weird and broken?.
Fuck it. If these are average things and wanting them makes me less interesting, so be it. There will still be stories. There will always be stories. And at least I know that if I ruin everything, and if he leaves me, I will write about it until I can breathe again.