What’s up cyber-surfer? My name’s Seven, and this is my blog. On Fridays I’ve been posting frowback entries from the early 2000s that shed light on why and how and when I left the United States never to return, and set up a new life here in Thailand. The catalyst was the end of my last relationship with a farang woman. At the time the following entry was written, she had recently left me and I was trying to content myself with rebounds and side girls. But even the entry of a new lady into my sphere couldn’t quash the damage done by the one who’d just exited. It was during these dark days, diluted with wine, that I began to realize I needed something much bigger, much more impactful, and more permanent than just another distraction in a bikini. Here’s how it shook out…
“Sunday, May 06, 2007 Current mood: nostalgic
In with the tide
It’s amazing the variety of curiosities that wash up on the beach in Malibu on any given day. And considering I’m there several times a week, I’m privy to a lot of it. Just this weekend, I witnessed two dead pelicans, a live baby sea lion, a truck tire, a lace teddy, and a skim board. In fact, if anyone would’ve asked me this morning whether I thought I could be surprised anymore, I’d have said no.
Imagine my shock when you washed up at my feet like a sopping wet kitten, even more adorable than I remember you. “Where have you been for the past 4 years?” I tried to ask, but I couldn’t make my brain work my mouth to form the words. Again, you cut my strings just like you did in 2003. Nostalgia in the form of a blade. You hugged me, in that tiny bikini. I thought my skin would spontaneously combust. Could love lost for so long still simmer in these bones? I got queasy at the thought.
Hold the phone, this calls for a little vino. . . . .it’s an Amuse Bouche, the secret sin of the woman who makes Screaming Eagle, $154 a bottle, and while it should probably sit for another 3 years, what’s the point? So much can happen in that time. I could decide to stop drinking.
That was a joke.
The wine is serene. Smells like blueberries, and I think a little dark chocolate. I taste cherries and smoky oak, some mild spice, and something like cran-raspberry. . .it’ll definitely be better in a few years. Better get another bottle. But for now it cures what ails. I needed a tranquilizer after today. Something to soothe the savage within. A long-asleep (or so I thought) animal called my heart that got a jolt from a bolt from the blue. That blue being the Pacific. You smelled the same—like candy and clean sheets, vanilla and strawberries. Soft, tiny white hairs on your stomach, skin the color of caramel I thought I was dreaming the freckle above your lip that I kissed a million times it was like falling backwards in time. You lay next to me on the towel, that dirty blonde hair brushed my shoulder and it all came back like a flash of lightning your nail polish your fingers that used to scratch down my back and that playful smile as though you had not a single care in the world. I even touched your thigh—did you notice? I couldn’t help myself. The memory of your legs wrapped around me I could carry you into the bedroom with one hand. The sound of your laughter was like a hundred snapshots in my mind I think of you in the light of the camera’s flash. The camera loved you, as I loved your image and worshipped it over and over, through a lens, with pencil and paper, paint and canvas. The line from your breast to your hip has haunted me all this time I think how many kisses I placed along that breathtaking curve and how you cried soft sounds of ecstasy and breathed heavy in my ear.
The wine is poisoning my blood like treacle in a wound. I can feel it softening the edges of my sentience as if to anesthetize the incision your beauty has made in my world. What do I do now? With this number of yours, scrawled on the back of my hand (you held it as you wrote, I felt my heart turn over in its grave) do I go down this road again, knowing already where it leads? Thank God you don’t have a myspace, I’d be royally fucked. But the long and short of it is, as much as I long to love you again, as hypnotic as your voice can be to my ear, as intoxicating as it would be to taste your skin one more time, I don’t know if I have it in me. I remember the weight of your body in my bed, the sound of you breathing asleep a few feet away, the heat emanating from you like a hidden fire, the small of your back naked and unashamed for me, your only audience, the privileged one, your lover, your man, kissing your scars, drying your tears, my strength a devotion to only you. I remember it all. I will take it to bed with me tonight. But were I to take you to bed again, I just don’t know if I could face another sunrise.
What will become of us, if I’m unable to love you? Maybe it’s best if I scrub this number off, and wait to see what washes up on the beach tomorrow.
I might be surprised.”
Although I rarely think of her now, what with all the beautiful distractions going and coming in my room on a weekly basis, it’s impossible not to see the impact my ex had on me at the time. I was so pathetically bound to her–both physically and psychologically–that her rejection of me had the power to turn my world inside out. These days there’s not a single human being who has that amount of power over me. I won’t allow it. I adore the girls in my harem. I consider them close friends and would do anything for them. Anything except love them, at least in the accurate sense of the word. But who needs love these days, anyway? Not this whoremonger. I need good wine. Cuban cigars. Good tunes in my iPod. Good girls who make short, regular, naked appearances in my apartment. Everyone tells me that someday I’ll find the right girl and get hitched. Maybe when I’m 70. I’ll need someone to change my diapers by then.
Swing by on Sunday for the weekly, and here’s to another week above ground 8,000+ miles from the vapid dating pool of Los Angeles. Cheers.