Rainbortion (Part 12: Waves)

“This is totally driving me crazy.”  Ben says.  And he launches into this story about some art opening he went to a few months ago.  “I’m minding my own business, when this” and he shudders “fat kid, like Wisconsin fat, corners me.  And I’m tripping balls, and his huge chins are all like jiggling while he talks.  And eventually I gave him my phone number just so he would go away.  It’s so gross.”  He fluffs his hair.  “I think I’m  reasonably attractive,” You’re beautiful you’re beautiful you’re beautiful you’rebeautiful you’re beautiful you’re beautiful you’re beautiful you’re beautiful you’re   beautiful you’re beautiful you’re beautiful you’re beautiful you’re beautiful you’re  beautiful you’re beautiful you’re beautiful you’re beautiful you’re beautiful you’re  beautiful you’re beautiful you’re beautiful you’re beautiful you’re beautiful you’re  beautiful you’re beautiful you’re beautiful you’re beautiful you’re beautiful you’re  beautiful you’re beautiful you’re beautiful you’re beautiful you’re beautiful you’re  beautiful you’re beautiful you’re beautiful you’re beautiful you’re beautiful you’re  beautiful you’re beautiful you’re beautiful you’re beautiful you’re beautiful you’re  beautiful you’re beautiful you’re beautiful you’re beautiful you’re beautiful you’re  beautiful you’re beautiful you’re beautiful you’re beautiful you’re beautiful you’re  beautiful you’re beautiful you’re beautiful you’re beautiful you’re beautiful you’re  beautiful you’re beautiful you’re beautiful you’re beautiful  “and I would never just go up to some stranger and force my presence on them until they gave me their phonenumber in an act of self-preservation.  As if he even had a chance, he’s sooooo fat, and gross.”

“You used to be fat.”  I say.  I’ve seen the pictures of Ben as a kid, as overweight in  junior high and early high school as I was.

“Fuck you.  I was never fat like this kid.  And the point is, I’m not fat now, so why would this guy think he had even a remote chance with me.  If I was trapped on a desert island with him and no food and nothing to do, I would make him turn away from me when I masturbated.  I don’t get all these people who think I would even bother with them.   Anyway, he called me today.  He hasn’t called in like weeks.  Like, back before I met you, he called me a bunch of times in one night.  And the messages went from normal what are you up to chit-chat to well, I guess you don’t care about me you self-righteous prick in the course of like four hours.  And, yea, I really don’t give a shit about him.  And I probably wouldn’t have called him back anyway, but certainly not after that barrage of messages.  So, today he calls and wants me to apologize for breaking his heart.  Breaking His Heart?  Ugh.  I’m so tired of all these men who say that I’ve broken their hearts.  I’m completely up front with people.  I’m a rock.  It’s not my fault that people keepslamming their hearts against me."

He is a rock.  Last week, I felt like waves crashing over him.  “You know I love you, right.”

His eyes go cold.  “We are not talking about this right now.”

“Why not?”

“Look, I’m not letting myself be in love or lust or like with anyone right now.  I mean, spending time with you is awesome and everything, but no.  We are never a yes.  Always no.  You and me?  No.  Friends.”  And he steers our conversation to safer shores.  How he’s going to New York in a couple of days with Lisabelle to procure some acid.  How he really likes Celeste, and wants to hang out with her more.

“I was looking through one of my ex’s Myspace accounts.” He says. “And he said There is no option for ‘I don’t care’ in relationship status, and then he listed his sexual orientation as straight. Apparently, there was no option for fucken liar in sexual orientation. I should be flattered. I’m the only guy he’s ever been with. But when we were making out one time he said I want you to fuck me, and then come on my face. I can see a straight guy getting drunk and maybe asking his gay friend to blow him, but asking to get fucked and have a guy come on your face is pretty much an exclusively gay thing.”

Then he says Labor Day pussy drink extra pillow pigeon.  Sign language van seatrelationship Galouises.

I don’t hear more than one word in any sentence he says.  I am sitting on the van seat.  Asscat is scratching at my leg, but I don’t have the energy to pet him or wave him away.  I just sit there and watch Ben pretend I never told him how I felt.  I listen to him turn the conversation toward his HIV positive ex.  How much he still cares for him.  How he’d have unprotected sex with him, so that the two of them could share the experience of dying together.  A funny anecdote about what happened to him at work the other day.  He just keeps talking at me and talking at me like I’m capable of listening or comprehending. 

And I realize, I’ve never been on his playlist.  I am an unrequited eyefuck poppy seed zombie.  Bombastic proposal of anorexic analogies.  You’re beautiful.   Never a yes.  Always no.  Beautiful.  Never.  Rainbortion.  Language.  I’m maybe not rebuilding but wrecked.  Maybe van seat.  Maybe fat kid.  Maybe vapid.  “I think seventeen is a perfect age”  Too old for him anyway.  Too bombastic.  Too pussy drink.  Too stem thick.  Never too.  Never positive.  Never you’re.  Never beautiful. 

There must be maggots under my skin.  It looks like I’m still breathing.