Satisfactional

Sometimes breaking up is such a bi*&!. You cry, you leaf through the memories in your mind. You cry some more. You wonder if anyone will ever fill the shoes of the person you were just snuggling with x hours ago. Their voice, haunts you. The memory of that time when you went to the store together and laughed, mocks your pain. The moments in the tent, at the beach, nobody could see you except God ... and now nobody hears your cries except God. What a pain in the ars. And what's it all for? Soon or later, you see that it was really not that big of a deal. Sooner the better. And my sooner was today ladies and gentlemen!

You see, I'm a giver. I think hard about my man, when I have one in my care. I anticipate his needs. I think about his preferences and even become sensitive to them. I care about him and want him to be happy on all levels. Yet, when I scan my memory, I find that there are few men in my history who were able to provide 1/5 as much care as me. I remember someone who came damn close and still love every hair on his head. Wonder where he is. Weird circumstances outside of our relationship (namely, his psycho parents) drove us apart, like Romeo and Juliet in Madison, Wisconsin, crying in our pillows and shivering in our cars as we warmed them up on butt-cold, post breakup, single days.

But you know, in my more recent quests for some, shall we say, connection these days, I've somehow lost track of my standards and let some doozies into my inner matrix of relationship.

This latest one--a 'successful' Indian businessman who is extremely handsome and persistent in his pursuit of what he wants--takes so much cake that he deserves mention as an example. He chased me for a good six months, telling me I'm 'not a plaything--somebody who he should take seriously.' I laughed even when he first broke out that line--"where'd you pick that one up?" I practically shouted through my laughter.

Still, he worked on me, broke me down, until one night we were having some tea with honey at Opera at Landmark and he looked at me and said a few of the most charming things I had ever heard uttered from the mouth of the male species. He then proceeded to buy me a purple orchid plant and secure a position next to me, in my bed, that night.

Fine, it was. He seemed to cry there in more active moments--another endearing gesture. But one can not be sure what that was about.

Anyway, weeks passed and since, in his mind, he had secured me, as some sort of property, he became more lazy about connecting with me unless it was completely on his terms. Now, I've seen this happen in the Western world, in high school, among boys who don't know better, after a year or so. But over here, in the East, it's like instant and really, really obvious.

I had a few fits to notice his lack of engagement in conversations with me, lack of interest in my thoughts, feelings, everything except our physical life and also how I could support him and cook for him one weekend when he was hopelessly ill with a high fever, about which I bought him a thermometer and taught him how to use it.

Anyway, so there it went and eventually I had had enough of the twighlight zone and enough sex to justify an even return on investment (a term he used to describe the dynamic of our relations long before me--a true business man, a true yutz on that token).

I dumped him, or at least tried. The following weekend I booked  a flight somewhere, alone. That weekend healed things significantly. The following week, he crept back into a weaker point in communications (his friend called me and I had to convey a message and then we talked and then he came over, and then boink, and then I said that was really goodbye because boink was not so great anymore without feelings).

Then came this--fabulous--weekend, where he started things off with a text about the full moon and worked into a text asking me for some directions somewhere in Dubai and then a full-fledged call on the phone, during which he proceeded to care less about what I was saying so much as how he could overshadow it.

I told him I was watching "The Painted Veil" and he didn't understand the title as I repeated it over the phone so I offered him an e-mail with it. He hates any movie that is not a comedy with at least 98 percent sophomoric humor content. So I sent him an e-mail after we hung up, on a conversation that was at best frustrating for me.

In the e-mail, I sent an IMDB link to the aforementioned movie along with the description of it as "sophisticated, deep and romantic" and one that, because he would find it a bore, I would wait to watch with someone open to the ideas.

He responded: "Shut up and find a movie like the one we watched before and we can enjoy watching together"

I responded "That's attractive!" ... thought about it and then whipped up this bit of poetry, the subject of this blog post, the crown jewel on a full-fledged dump:

"Please note that the last message was 100 percent sarcastic. I've never felt more like someone wants to get to know me LESS in a relationship than when I am with you. Thus, you have succeeded in turning me OFF.

Again, your level of presumption that I would have "fun" constantly being pushed into the shadow of some guy's (your) preferences amazes me!

You seem to have mistaken me for a girl who is:

a) stupid b) just in awe of your great success and can't fight attraction to you c) a complete prostitute.

I laugh to think of it in fact ... it's WAY more enjoyable for me to be in my own company than in that of someone who doesn't know how to be open or to share.

Emily"