You moved on, stepped in so far that, should you wade no more, returning is as tedious as go o’er. You bet, you Macbeth. You’ve been through some real shit, man, you’ve seen shit, you’ve done shit, you’ve lost your shit, but somehow you’ve managed to keep your shit together and now you know some shit about shit. You just needed some time, some warmth and some pussy.
It turns out that pussy is the greatest painkiller for all of your hard aches. Pussy heals it all, pussy knows, pussy listens, pussy understands, pussy will lead you through the darkest valleys of your most desperate times. Have faith in pussy.
It seems you’re cured – not that you’re totally fine and stuff, but you’re obliviously not a crybaby bitching about how hard it is. And then, a few weeks away from moving out from your glory hole town to start a new life, you helplessly fall in what seems to be love. Love again.
She’s the kind of girl that gives you a vague notion of the Unattainable. She’s your teenage fantasy from the poster. She’s the incarnation of the sluttiest innocence, of the sublime vulgarity, of the modest provocativeness, of the kindest bitchyness. She’d make you proud, she’d make you feel alive. But you know she’s totally out of your league.
Funny thing is, she feels exactly the same about you.
Yes, life has its own genuine sense of irony. It knows when to pour down some big load of shit on your head, and when you least expect it, it gives you a hug, a candy or a blowjob.
So you’re sitting there on the patio of the most popular club in town, hanging out with your best mate, having a beer or something, and she’s sitting there, right in front of you, just a few steps, accompanied by what appears to be her boyfriend. You’re watching her discretely because you like everything about her.
But she’s not so discrete – in fact, she’s not discrete at all.
And there goes the most important, the most becoming, the most exciting thing about men and women, the very essence of our sexuality – the eye contact. It’s uncompromising, it knows no retreat, it’s dense, it’s intense, it’s present and it’s tense. You two just take it to another level.
You know it’s something, your best mate knows it’s something, but the presence of the other guy makes you all confused. Everyone’s dying to see how this one ends.
Your friend proposes you a bet: he wants you to go there and just flirt the shit out of this situation. You may have some guts but you’re not mad, you can’t take such a bet, you don’t want any Faust pas.
Then you and your friend both decide to go out, have a walk, visit some other place. Then after a while you both come back again and she’s still there. But now she’s the one who’s leaving. Things just come and go, fortune’s a bitch, once you’re a king, once you’re a beggar.
And all of a sudden, after your eyes have already met for the last adieu to optically kiss the space that separates you, she approaches you carelessly and hands you over this wrinkly piece of paper that appears to be a chewing gum wrapping. You both say nothing, she leaves. At that moment you still consider it a joke, she must be having a good laugh now, for what you’re about to discover is most likely a wet chewing gum she’s just put out of her pretty mouth. But instead, inside the paper wrapping, you find her phone number.
You type the number down on your cell phone under the name that says it all: Unknown beauty. Of course you call her. You’re not as dumb as you look. So you start dating. Turns out that the guy she was with the other night is her gay friend. Totally trustworthy. She’s got some cool friends by the way. And she’s gracious and she’s damn smart. She’s that kind of smart that you find hot as hell. She reads things and she likes your writing. And loving your writing is the sweetest love a girl can make to you.
She recommends you this novel that will change your way of thinking about literature forever. It is Nabokov’s finest and most achieved work, full of juicy passages and incredibly eloquent puns: Ada or Ardor. From the very first lines you adore Ada’s pandoric orientation towards nature and you sense the odor of her brilliant idiolect, dressed in the splendor of ardent metaphors that open the door to most devious ardor one can think of, devoutly to be punished, erotically speaking, adultery adored and devoured. You notice that Nabokov is relentlessly fucking with the reader and you start to love this game that only the one with the pen, the one with the pun, the pantheist demiurge of the fictional world, can ever win.
Thank you, my adorable Ada, ardor of my dolor.
You and your new girlfriend go along surprisingly well. She takes you quite seriously – such an honor you did not expect. So you take her seriously too. That cannot end up well, can it?
You have your big time, there are moments of a violent passion. When she first kisses you, you already end up scratched and bitten but you do not complain, you appreciate her pretty cruelty. You even like the fact that every damn time you leave her for a tiny moment alone in a bar, someone tries to pick her up. And though she’s kind to everyone, you’re the only person she gives a fuck about, so you both make fools of other guys pretending to be siblings, just like in the novel.
Such is the Summer of your loving. No wonder when she tells you she’s got to leave to Manchester for a couple of weeks, you decide to follow her without hesitation. There will you spend some of the most incredible days of your life, most of the time shifting gently from a passionate lovemaking to a deep conversation. You keep talking while falling asleep, and you wake up talking, and all of a sudden, you realize you’re making out again. Fucking and talking – this is what couples do.
What could possibly go wrong? She even forgave you when your ex ended up again in your bed, she appreciated the fact that you told her, that you’d resisted the almost uncontrollable temptation of the body you knew so well and loved so much. She forgave you this. And she forgave you, God, she really did, this one time when you told her in the bed that she’s not this other one, she’s not your ex. Such a brilliant ontological statement. And you told her that, you bitch. This one thing no-one should ever hear from a lover: “You’re not her”, “You’re not him”. One day you will hear that too. In fact, you will hear that many times. Take it as your redemption. Far too many times you were him to the others and you didn’t give a damn.
Anyway, when you’re involved, shit goes wrong incredibly well.
You’ve been accepted to the studies you’ve been dreaming of. You’re about to move to some real city and enter the path that will enable you to read the French novels for a living. How cool is that? You’re going to learn some shit too. Oh, you can’t even imagine the things you’re about to learn.
Now you leave, she stays. But you both don’t worry much. For the first few weeks you visit each other regularly and you keep talking and making sweet love all the way au bout de souffle. It’s just that at some point, and heaven knows why, you stop caring. Maybe it’s because you too sure of her being yours, or maybe you’re too excited with the new city thing. Either way, you fuck it up once again. All the missed calls, all the long, sensitive and pretty brilliant letters she sends – you leave it all without much of a response. She’s damn right to dump you, she’s too much of a woman for you.
Now you’re all alone with your novels. In a city that doesn’t give a fuck about you.
Watch out for the shit is yet to come.