For the record.

Some of the stories he told me that night about his sordid past, are hitting me only just now. The reality of what he survived is finally getting through my thick skull. That, and when he told me I was drunk enough to black some of it out for a while.

Like the time when he was coming down of a four day bender with peunomia and everyone thought he was dying, so girls would come into his "death bed" and give him pity blow jobs. He said he has very vague memories of that, couldnt tell a single soul who the girls were, or even if he got off from it...but that it happened more than once...that he remembers.

The reality of such a history is finally hitting me. Just stop, and think about it for a second...it is a world where everything is a means to an end...nothing is sacred, nothing is about love, everything is just a way to get anoher fix, and everything is worth that one final fix. Worth, when you are got pity blow jobs, is skewed when you get them out of love. You preseptions are all messed up and your trust is a little funky.

He said he was testing me- and that most of them were in regards to weither or not I actually did like sleeping with him. Perhaps this is where the issues rest....pity blow jobs versus blow jobs with love...which is better? which is real? To the former addict discerning real from false is key. Perhaps I just have to continue being as real as I can be?

god, I dont know anymore.

There is that don’t go there button that I have so much trouble avoiding. Almost as soon as I see it, I’m there pushing as hard as can be, before I even realize what I am doing. In the wake of the mess I created, it dawns on me that I’ve done it again. Asked those questions that no one ever really asks, or if they do ask, they never ask as directly as I do. People are either too afraid of what the answer may be, or how the question would affect the person who it is directed to. I seem to miss that part while in the moment…those social graces of knowing that some things are too far too soon.

“What was it like the first time you found out someone died because of something you sold them?”

Oh God….did that just come out of my mouth? Think before you speak. Think Jane, Think.

Sometimes I wonder if my inkling to push that don’t go there button, is because I get easily frustrated with half truths and partial stories. That perhaps I am doing the thing that no one does because I am the girl that serves that purpose. The in-between girl, the pretend girlfriend, who by nature of her role, serves as some sort of catalyst for a kind of esoteric soul searching journey that mends the broken heart. The mending part of life means facing those histories that we would rather leave in the dust and ignore for the rest of our lives. But, any creative soul knows that those histories will haunt you, stifle you…hinder the beauty within. To find peace, you have to face your demons.

“You really opened a can of worms, Jane, didn’t you?”

Yes. Oh God, I’m sorry I did that. Don’t turn away, please, just look at me.
You are safe with me.

It was a hot night. The rain from earlier that day hung thickly in the air. Sitting at the table with the dinner dishes stacked at the sink, our drinks in front of us, and the conversation naturally drifting to a history rarely told at all, let alone to an outsider. Drugs, guns, whores and models…..all of it just as horrifying as it was fascinating - the story of a true survivor. As his story came out in bits and pieces, the silence in between each addition grew louder. Sitting in the semi dark watching the curl of the smoke from the tips of our cigarettes, I noticed his eyes change. Something that wasn’t there before crept into those sea blues – something I couldn’t quite understand. It wasn’t regret, or even remorse…but something more like a self realization gone sour. I asked tough questions, pushed him further into that space. I didn’t think before speaking and I kept the conversation going. Maybe it was the whiskey, or maybe it is the nature of our companionship, but I kept gently pushing, calmly reassuring and looking for more.

He didn’t sleep near me all night.

But before sleep crept in, he asked me to put my hand on his back.
“I like that a lot. It’s calming”

Tracing outlines of trees, birds, writing stories with my fingers along his soft flesh. Up and down his spine. Across the muscles pulled out from the centre, along his arms and under his neck. Listening to him sleep. Watching his body rise and fall with every deep breath.

Do I trace out that I love you?