Still Life photo by Bilyana Dimitrova
Last night was apparently a great night at Real Art Ways for WINCE: LOVE HURTS. As is my luck, I arrived late as everyone was cleaning up. For those interested, the transcript I of my WINCE: Love Hurts story is after the jump. If you're interested, cue up any of the following songs to play along:
- Tudo Isto É Fado (Everything is Fado) - Amália Rodrigues
- Wave of Mutiliation - The Pixies
- Wild Wild Life - Talking Heads
- Still Ill - The Smiths
- Letter To Memphis - The Pixies
- Atomic - Blondie
- Blue Spanish Sky - Chris Isaak
- There is a Light that Never Goes Out - The Smiths
- Bizarre Love Triangle - New Order
- Wicked Game - Chris Isaak
And I shit you not... this is all true.
Coming from a Portuguese heritage, we're born into it. "Melancholic Love" are our middle names. We are, after all, the people that gave the world the Fado, a song style entirely based on 'longing' and 'melancholy' and 'love lost'. My family's stories revolve around unrequited love. Relationships and marriages were actually borne out of being kept from their true loves. Oh, yeah, man we got it bad.
Which is why I don't go after Portuguese girls. They're my Achille's Heel: I've gone after 3 and they've all ended badly. First you have to make certain that you are in no way distantly related. (That was strike no. 1 after a month of chasing her).
Second, you have to make certain she doesn't see you as an older brother whom she decides to tell her secrets to and then when she finds the right stud, you become second fiddle. (Though, on her wedding day, everyone likes to remind you about how much she loves you and that the husband is totally jealous... Yeah. thanks. Not even her hot bridesmaid cousin later that night makes up for it).
Sure, you'll always long for her, deep down. But the next one to come along, you know you're not related, you've known her all your life, and maybe after a few years of denying it to each other, you decide, what the hell, I really do care about her and I'm going to go for it this time. Only, she ain't feeling it and the night before your birthday, when you have people over and you're really only waiting for her to come by, she calls about some other fellow who decided he needed to ask her out that very night. So you meet for lunch the next day after you drunkenly spilled your heart out to her on the phone about the ironic timing of it all. As if the silence on the other end of the phone hadn't been telling enough, at lunch, her order of a small salad is the nail in the coffin of that relationship that had been building up for years.
She's not ready for a relationship, you're best friends, she can't think of you any other way. The Friend Zone Defense. She must focus on her masters and getting into an intense program. She can't be tied down to a relationship just now. You watch her pour the blood from your still beating heart that she ripped out on her salad as she changes subject to discuss her masters program. Not less than 3 months later as you're walking around Elizabeth Park's blossoming gardens with the rest of the visitors that day, one of the most crowded I seen in a while, you're only moments away from running into her holding hands with that lanky tall bald fuck... was he the dude? who was he? You avoid running right into them or having them see you by quickly about facing and jumping through the first thorny hedge behind you. Oh, love hurts my friends.
That one hurt so bad, I immediately slept with the next woman I met. The day before our 'date', she'd just broken up with her boyfriend of 5 years who was still in Canada. I should have known it wasn't meant to be, that we wouldn't be recounting our funny little hook up to grandkids when only 3 weeks into it, I overheard tell someone else, that "it's always good to date a guy on the side". Karma's a bitch.
All of this boils down to my history of striking out in college, the great mating ground, the land of the lost, the 4 year experimentation period. The age where you find your one true love every other weekend at a different party. Granted, I didn't party...much. I must have fallen in love & lust more times than I can now remember. Each semester had it's memorable heartbreak. There were a few that struck out. Everything in those 4 years was meant to be transitory, but I didn't know that at the time. I discovered my senior year though and decided that was it. My heart was broken and mended more times than I can recount.
But then... it happened . Her name was M.. She was my little pixie. She was everything I wasn't; spunky, cute, hot, sexy, on a sports team, a great photographer. Popular. She was amazing. And I can't even tell you why. All I knew was I wanted her. We hung out a few times. We became dark room friends. Her tight body, her pouty lips, her wavy dark blond hair, that dark tan, the smell of cocoa on her skin. Our love of Elvis Costello, Tom Waits, old school punk, and Chris Isaak. Then, for whatever reason, she made me a mixtape. We all know about the mixtape. I was in her room, and she wanted a photo of us together. But her camera wouldn't work; a hug and kiss would have to do. But M. was dating some other fellow, so my chances were nil.
Then, I met the Little Red Haired girl. She was from Eastern Europe. I'd seen her around. She was so freaking cute (except for those yellow denim overalls she would sometimes wear). We became friends. That guy's photo over her bed, that was just some good friend back home, she said once. Despite that, she was the type of funky girl I could bring home to mother (which I did once), where as the mere idea of M. would instantly bring discerning looks from my parents.
And so, somehow... I was mixed up in these bizarre love triangles... My curse, I believe. I was torn between two women I couldn't ever really have. I was trying to play cold, but E. and I grew closer, despite having less in common. And I kept longing for M. Then came the menage.
Now, I should preface... the Menage was actually a very popular party that the alt lifestyle/S&M group, the S/M/ACES put on every year. It was just a wild party where the school could let down their hair for a night (cause, y'know, we never did that anyway on weekends). That weekend, I wasn't supposed to be doing anything; there was editing to be done for senior project. Editing had slowed to a halt, I was uninspired and I was told to meet some friends at the menage for drinks. (never one to turn down alcohol, why not).
I got there before anything was really happening naturally. The cage dancers were on, the music was banging, the drinks weren't pouring just yet. And in typical fashion, none of my mates were there yet. Over the music, I heard her call out my name. I turned around as M. ran at me, and leapt into my arms, wrapping me with her legs hardened by soccer playing. I can still remember how she felt in my arms, how I was holding her, my hands on her perfect buttocks, underneath that short skirt. She'd been looking for me, she smiled that mischievous smile of hers, the disco lights sparkling off her beautiful blue eyes. Our lips centimeters from away from one another. At that moment, all was right with the world.
I let her down so she could go meet her friends and so we didn't look like those pervs... y'know, at a Menage themed S&M dance. She had to run to the dorm nearest us to meet her girlfriends. I had to cool down. We'd meet up later, we said. After a while, without my droogs there and M. having not returned, I decided to head outside for a bit. It was a beautiful spring night in the mid-hudson valley. the sky was clear, the grass was green, the trees were blooming, the hedges were full again. All was right with the world as I exited the club, preparing to walk up the path to main campus to get a drink. The dorm to my left was wide awake preparing for the party. To my right, coming down the hill, was my little red-haired E.. She was beaming as she saw me from a distance. I was shocked to see her as she was supposed to be off campus. Walking down the stairs from the dorm with her friends, was M., holding two glasses of wine, one for her and one for me.
The path up the hill was in the form of a Y. I was at the base of the path, M. to my left, E. to my right both smiling at me so that they didn't see each other as they converged at the meeting point of the path and M. spilled the wine onto E.'s dress. They both looked up at me. Wisely, M.'s friends led her away, while a very infuriated E. glared at me before walking from me.
And so ended my menage.
