How does one integrate the irritating and nonirritating aspects of a life into a nice narrative without the irritating aspects distracting from the heavenly aspects not only in the narrative constructed, but in one's actual life? The narratives fashioned may be all that there is to this life, and so I am being delicate here trying to figure out what to talk about and in what order to do so and how much importance to place on things, because the past few days has been a real mixed bag - some things that have made me happy to be alive just by reminding me that I have a body, that I am composed of flesh and blood that is easily stimulated, and some things so routine, so mechanical that make me feel anything but alive. I know that I need to work on looking at those happy things, that this is how I should construct this narrative and put those other things out of focus, just background noise to the beauty, to the joyful singing that is otherwise there. It is just a matter of focusing.
I still don't have internet at my house after three visits from Time Warner. There will be a fourth visit which would not be so irritating say if I were a fifties housewife and not working two jobs, and had all this time where I was home anyways. The Princeton Review also seems to be out to distract me from constructing a happy narrative by not having my paycheck today, even though I needed it desperately, and they do not know when they will have it.
Because I am having trouble integrating these narratives, because the one tends to stress me out so much and distract me from the other, I went to a therapist yesterday for the first time, which you might think remarkable if you have ever heard me talk about my aversion to the field of psychology, but why not utlizie your health insurance for every penny it is worth and try out new things in this life, and so yes, yesterday for an hour, I talked with an elderly lady on 16th St about my life. It was not all that I was hoping for, but it is what I was predicting. I think really what I was looking for was a guru, some sage person to direct me. She is a little old lady with a little dog and focused on a career and finishing school much more than I would have liked her to. I wanted to talk about love and searching for meaning and she wanted to talk about stability and security. One choice question from her that might explain the system of values she is working from:
Are you going to be a drifter your whole life?
She obviously hit at something since this question still irritates me and for that reason I think I am going to continue to see this woman because her outlook is so drastically different from mine, that it will hopefully help me to step back and see things from other ways. New ways of seeing, that is what so much of this life is about, the fun parts, and that is what this experiment is about. And giving her the brief overview of my life, I realized how easy it would be to think of me as troubled. I did not even finish cataloging all the family catastrophes I witnessed, but she seemed shocked by the few I did get to bring up in that hour. I look forward to seeing how these sessions progress.
I called in sick to work a few times last week just because I was not happy and would not be made happier by going to the Strand, that is what lead to me calling the therapist. During that time off, I read a lot, and if anyone wants a book recommendation, I cannot sing the praise of Philip Roth's The Plot Against America enough. The book has gotten an insane number of write-ups, most of them gushing, and this book deserves all that praise. I could not put it down. I read it in two days, and soon jumped to Sabbath's Theater because I wanted more Roth, only to be at first disappointed because the tone is so different from Plot Against America, but now I love it also, and maybe it is because I am reading this sex-obsessed book right now that sex was about the only thing I had on my mind last night. Getting insanely drunk before the open bar closed at Metropolitan was the other thing on my mind last night, and together those two thoughts worked in concert and were successful in bringing a cute boy, a boy whom I had written a Missed Connection for last week, brining him to my bed. And this is what I was talking about at the beginning, that heavenly narrative that sometimes get drowned out by those loud neighbors downstairs with their yelling and bad Latin music.
Lots of rum was consumed and it was not too long before I was talking to strangers, making out with them, and unbuttoning their jeans. My long time crush Christopher was there and I am afraid that if he was not already terrified of me, then he surely is now after I was insanely hyper last night, telling him that the behind the hyperness, propelling it was just a desire to make out. I was forward, really forward with this other cute boy, Anthony and told him that he should come home with me. He said yes, and soon without any of those hesitations and formalities that postpone the act, he was on my bed naked and his cock was in mouth, and I was trying not to stifle my gag reflex and so my eyes were watering and that moment was bliss, that pleasure bordering pain, continuing to suck his dick as my eyes watered, trying to navigate it to the side of my throat so I wouldn't gag, his legs wrapped around my neck, the most intense physical feeling I have experienced in too long a time. My first bedroom sexual encounter in over six months. The last person I had non-anonymous, non-backroom sex with was Matt. I hadn't done laundry in two months either, but I did it yesterday and of course, sheets that don't see sex for months, see it on the first day that they are washed and clean. After both of us came on his stomach, there was the casual good-bye since he had to wake up at five to do interior design work for Kelly Ripa or something that sounded equally surreal in my drunken state. He put on his skull and crossbones underwear and wrote his number on my wall in ink.
I woke up this morning happy, sang to myself in the shower even though Jillian was asleep on the opposite side of the shower wall. Nothing could contain that happiness I felt this morning and again, this is what I want to talk about, what I want to feel. The narrative is going to be a joyous one. I am going to read oversexed books and am going to be forward and am going to engage in numerous sexual encounters, am going to do without guilt, going to stifle out those stupid neighbors with happy thoughts, happy touches. It is one way. What we are talking about is combination therapy. That will be in play, as will good music, good words, looking at nice things, open stretches of sky, and narrating this in such way to you, but mainly to myself in such a way that I will be happy with my life, really seriously happy.