Monday, June 12, 2006

Foam core

"How'd the midterm go for you?"

"It wasn't too bad, being open-book and all."

HOLY AYATOLLAH PAT MORITA! Open-book?! I had no feckin' idea. Didn't bring a goddamn thing. This, obviously, convinces my mother that I am on the cusp of getting kicked out of university even though I'm getting solid As (and Bs) towards my concentration. Yeesh, it's a summer general ed. course on linguistics; I don't give two shits about Chomsky.



I told my parents about MArt.

"This one's serious," I said.

"What is he?"

"What do you mean what is he? He's white, mom. He's a white guy."

"Oh, okay. [*silence*] I so busy now. Mommy go back to work."


I've been meaning to write in my blog this past week, but everytime I found an opening, I opted out. Two nights ago, I considered leaving MArt. The strangeness of intimacy boiling over, I thought of running away the following morning.

Thankfully, it didn't happen.

We were fucking and he said something that hurled long-buried issues into my face.

"You have a very dominating personality," he said, and patronized me from under my torso. "I only allow you to get away with it most of the time."

"Don't pull this childish shit with me," I warned before pulling on my underwear.

"Where're you going?"


He held me back. I resisted. Unable to keep from laughing, I tried squirming off the bed instead. MArt nuzzled the back of my neck and asked that I tell him what's wrong. I ran my hands through his auburn locks and demanded an apology. Not until you tell me what's wrong. Tears crept to the corners of my eyes, fragilely cradled between meddling lashes.

"I cannot deal with passive-aggression," I stately flatly.

My assertiveness has always been a problem for certain men to accept. I've been slapped around in public, beaten in private, and generally humiliated for being the way I am. I have always been told I needed to be "tamed" -- an ill-natured game for the emasculated man. I should read less, they'd joke, not talk so much. Their feeble intellects easily cornered, I took the brunt of resentful response. Break me, they tried. I am better than you, their eyes similarly burned and seethed. I will cause you anguish. Submit, submit, submit. Always by force.

And so it came, fast and hard: the hand, the foot, the tightened grip. I fought back, and back it came. They'd been triggered, they'd reason. It was me, not them. It was my stubborness/foolishness/girlishness that was the cause. Don't do it again. (When I accidentally rolled over MArt's toe with my chair yesterday, my first reaction was to flinch before saying sorry. It was my body preparing to be struck. Instead, he shouted a couple of profanities, sat me down on his lap, and continued surfing the 'net. Amazing!)

I told MArt having a strong personality is how I prevent anyone from co-opting my identity: I don't want to disappear just because I've prioritized him. He ended up staying awake all night making sure I was alright and apologized for the things he did, and the things I never even thought of bringing up. He acknowledged that he has to work on accepting his more submissive role if I am to remain in his life. "You are the best thing to have happened to me [since I was 14]," he whispered in my ear.

What is a relationship worth? Can it be expressed in monetary terms? Is it even measurable? How fair is it to compare it to material necessity? In any case: Here's hoping long-term success with my first official squeeze. Huzzah!


Prada mules arrived in perfect condition. The eBay seller sent me a hand-written letter explaining why exactly my purchase was delivered late and paid for priority express. That's what I call service.

Lord, my shoe collection is getting to be way too ... Who am I kidding? It's awesome. The front door doesn't need opening!

No comments: