Friday, June 12, 2009

Modern Romance 2.0

I just came back from, as Oasis so succinctly put it, "fucking in the bushes." We met up at a parking lot. He moved his hand up my thigh as I peeled off my panties in the passenger seat. The whole thing felt like kids playing grown-up, a youthful pantomime at once absurd and clichéd.

After wiping the dirt from my knees, we traipsed back to his vehicle. Then he said those dreaded words, sequentially letting slip his hidden interest:

"So, how many guys have you been with?"

As we crossed a bridge, he told me he's been thinking of settling down. I don't know whether he felt obligated to say it or he was telling the truth; all I knew was I wanted to believe neither. While I'm content with our existing arrangement, however surreptitious, I am indifferent to his life because I am fully aware of our incompatibility, and by association, my contempt for him.

His excessive vanity repulses me.

His bravado forced.

His touch vulgar and unrefined.

Yet, the convenience of fucking him at indeterminate intervals overrides those qualities and allows me to unwind without the emotional ups and downs of a relationship.

In Alain de Botton's "Essays in Love," he likened the initial spark between couples to Groucho Marx's celebrated aphorism (incorrectly attributed to Woody Allen) of refusing to join a club that would have him as a member.

The paradox of the timid concludes that once mutual interest is ascertained, it cannot be sustained. For how could their beloved be perfect if they could love someone as imperfect as themselves?

But I am not timid. I am fetching, self-assured, and of sound mind. To love me is to reaffirm - rather than diminish - my attributes. I justify my promiscuity not as a response to monogamy, but proof that the arbitrariness of attraction should not be relied upon for direction. Where does it say that there must be a causal link between desirability and intercourse? Amorous feelings that encourage fucking in said bushes is as unpredictable as couples falling suddenly out of love for the same reasons they fell in. The medieval conception did not even bother associating sexual conquest with romantic love, for the latter wilts the moment the former is assuaged. In other words, I find it illogical to respond lustily only when the mood strikes when the determining factors for love and hate are capricious. Can feelings be trusted when a wisp of hair is interpreted by different individuals as both endearing and vile?

Of course, the simpler answer is always the most obvious one: It's a whole lot easier to spread my legs than pretend to be impressed with underemployed twenty-somethings eternally lost at sea.

I'm happy with how I've compartmentalized my life. I have a stimulating job to support myself, I have great friends whom I rely on for emotional sustenance, and I have men in my periphery who get me off. I wonder how long it will stay this peachy??

No comments: